


Naked

by Nikoshinigami



Series: Naked, Stripped, and Raw [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the six months since John's marriage to Mary, very little has changed and still nothing is quite the same. With Sherlock run down with exhaustion and temporarily suspended from Yard involvement, a retreat to the ruin scattered cliffs of Mounts Bay may hold the cure more than just the physical ailments of man.</p><p>Edited by <a href="http://renadolce.tumblr.com/">Renadolce</a></p><p>Winner for Best Characterization in the 2014 <a href="http://sherlockbbcficrecs.tumblr.com/post/98736794821/winners-of-the-2014-holmsies-announced">Holmsies Awards</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." - Genesis 2:17

The miscarriage had happened early on in the pregnancy. John had only gotten around to telling his immediate family the good news before it became sobering and somber, bleeding out with only an ache in the heart and a memory. Cards of congratulations from his parents and sister were still being delivered, posted before the follow up, but John always saw that they were promptly thrown away for Mary’s sake along with the rest of the unwanted mail. It was almost literally the least he could do, coupled with well-thought words and comfort. Much as he felt the term "we’re pregnant" was daft and rather untrue, he always made sure it was "we lost the baby" and never "she". He didn’t have to be an obstetrician to know biology was no woman’s fault.

It was a hard hit for a newlywed couple but John felt they were handling it well. She’d only yelled at him once for their loss, blaming his medical knowledge for the little good it served them. He’d yelled at her once as well: for deciding on her own to stop taking her birth control before they could talk about children. He’d slept on the sofa; she’d gone to his mother’s. They spoke the next morning over tears and tea. Things had been getting better since then.

John never told Sherlock. 

_"I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, confidentiality and all that, but I thought you should know..."_  


The things they didn’t tell each other seemed increasingly vast since John’s marriage. John read more often in the paper Sherlock’s exploits than he heard from the man himself and the occasions on which Mycroft felt it necessary to kidnap John had dwindled to none. It was peaceful and lovely in a way. He could enjoy marital bliss without Sherlock’s rolling eyes and scoffs of disapproval or dismissive cruelty. His missed him but not enough to subject himself to his insensitive remarks while his heart was still mending. Weeks cut off from each other for a honeymoon turned into a month of broken communication turned aside for work and husbandry. One month became two, then three, then somehow six with a wife and work and personal drama requiring all of his energies. He had work colleagues he went to drinks with, still kept in touch with army mates over pints of lager and crisps. Sherlock was always at the back of his mind like a forbidden thought begging for his attentions to linger, an itch waiting to be scratched, the addict begging for another hit. 

  
_"He hasn’t been doing all that well lately. Exhaustion. Fatigue. You know how he gets. Doesn’t take care of himself to be honest..."_   


Sherlock was an obsession his marital life did not need too great an indulgence in. A phone call on the walk home, texts and photos of random things intended to make his friend laugh, those were the extent of things in the cool autumnal and winter months of John’s first year of marriage. 

  
_"Anyway, I went by his flat..."_   


Which was why it came as little surprise the day Lestrade called to tell him he was arresting Sherlock for possession. 

  
_"John, there’s nothing else I can do for him. He won’t listen. ‘Least not to me..."_   


Things like “for his own good” were said often, along with words like ‘rehab’ and ‘again’. John waited for Mycroft’s commanding summons to commission his service but no such orders came. Only family could visit so yet again the weeks of complete silence stretched on between them, John remaining angry at Sherlock as he tried to reason away every account by which it was stupid for him to be angry at himself.

  
_"I know you two are kind of estranged now and I’m not saying you need to do anything. Just thought you should know is all."_   


It had been Mary’s idea, bless her. She’d come with John to help search for hidden stashes in his old bachelor quarters, preparing it for Sherlock’s return with the intention of giving him a good, fresh start with nothing available should the boredom claim him. What started as a vague idea to be laughed at turned into physically packing Sherlock’s bag for him and taking it back to their own home, waiting for the cab ride the next morning to pick up its owner. They were hastily made plans but all the better for it. 

Leaning against the black cab, John sent one last text to Mary, sending her his love from just outside the rehabilitation center. It was smaller than he pictured and the stonework on the face of it old and cracked like a relic. He could see the diamond pattern of the shatter proof glass behind the bars along the windowsills. It seemed more a prison than a hospital. He didn’t care to imagine whatever potential violence went on inside as patients detoxed and road out withdrawals. Cocaine, at least, was kind in that department. Sherlock’s stay was more akin to a prison sentence than a medical intervention. That he had stayed and not broken out ‘again’ made John hopeful.

He waited not more than five minutes past the hour he’d been informed was standard check out before his friend pushed through the entry, overnight bag in hand. With his perfectly tailored suit pressed and dark, curly hair in perfect order, Sherlock looked more like he’d walked out of a gallery than a medical facility. Even from several yards away, though, John could see the dark circles under his eyes and his unnaturally sallow complexion. He wasn't well. The cocaine was just a symptom, really, of whatever else was going wrong inside that funny little head of his. Sherlock had always been amazingly brilliant when it came to working out what other's concealed but exceedingly awful at disguising his own. He wore exhaustion on his face the way Mary wore rouge and depression oozed from his eyes like an infectious crust. A total stranger would be able to tell the man was weary. A friend the likes of John could tell it took all Sherlock had to keep moving.

Like all other things, Sherlock’s surprise at seeing John was evident. His thick brows rose high above his pale eyes, the slight tilt of his jaw alluding to his curiosity. He took the short flight of stone stairs between the entrance and sidewalk slowly, seemingly buying time with every controlled step. John cleared his throat as he leaned over and pulled the cab door open, holding it ajar with a casual lean.

"Come on. Meter’s running."

Sherlock’s eyes flashed slightly at the two sets of luggage visible inside the vehicle, his left brow arching briefly as though punctuating some internal phrase. "And where exactly are we going?" Sherlock asked. He came to a stop just within the open cab door, standing opposite John for the first time in what felt like ages. 

"You’re coming with me to Mounts Bay," John said. He gestured for him to get in, lips pursed slightly with his teeth bedding into them as he held Sherlock's tired stare.

Sherlock paused, considering, then slipped down into the car, scooting over to the far side as John came 'round and slid in beside him, closing the door as he did. The driver started off without prompting, directions already given as to their next destination.

Sherlock pulled his luggage to him, unzipping the top enough to peek down into its contents. "What's in Mounts Bay? A case?"

John shook his head. "A beach house. Rest. Relaxation."

"Stagnation," Sherlock complained, slumping in his seat with a roll of his eyes.

"Me." 

Sherlock paused in his theatrics, arms held crossed over his chest like an obstinate child. 

Some things never changed.

John took a deep breath. Absence made the heart grow fonder, they said, and really all that meant was that bullshit was much easier to forget than the fond memories in between. It was hard to forget that Sherlock was the most difficult man on the planet. Still, sitting beside him, as his doctor and as his friend, John found it hard not to want to punch him in the arm till he sat up and acted his age. "You don't have to come if it puts you off that much," he said. "I can call Mary, ask her to call her girl's retreat off and come join me out there on the cliffs with the nice sea air. I can do that if you'd rather. Personally, I can't see the point in you going back to the flat by yourself when your bag's already packed and I've got your train ticket in my wallet."

Sherlock remained slouched but turned his face up, his posture resting his head bellow even John's against the seat's upholstery. "Going on holiday without your wife?" His eyes were calculating in their pin-point stare. 

John scowled. "Don't read into it. There's nothing wrong with our marriage. We both have other relationships besides with each other you know. She has her old college pals. I have you. We just felt that it would be nice to reconnect. Come back with a few new stories to tell."

"Which happens to coincide with my release." It would have been far too much to hope for for Sherlock not to have made some kind of connection between his recent fine and court ordered rehabilitation and the sudden trip being offered. Sherlock's lips pursed thin with disappointment. "I take it you've cleared everything with my probation officer?"

"Don't be sore at Lestrade just because he brought you to charges. It's your own fault for using."

"In my own home. In private."

"So if I kill someone in my own home, in private, that would be okay, would it?"

"John, don't be an idiot."

John gave a short, unamused laugh. "I'm not the one who got arrested," he said. He watched Sherlock's sulk grow deeper and shook his head, leaning his elbow on the cab door as he watched the sights go by. 

It was frightening in a way. Sitting there, not more than foot between them, and still it seemed they were miles apart. John didn't feel like he was any different. Sherlock certainly was par for the course. But they still weren't _them_. The fact that the realization made his gut feel cold at least proved he still wanted to be. It was hard to tell with Sherlock. One could lead a horse to water much the same as they could pack Sherlock off for holiday. What they did after that was up to them. Surely Sherlock could feel it too.

John cleared his throat, looking down at his lap rather than across the mile long foot. "Look, I'm proud of you for sticking it out. What's wrong with a holiday to celebrate? You and I, we haven't... I mean, ya know... Feels like it's been a really long time since... well, since we really did anything together."

Sherlock said nothing, looking ahead at the back of the driver's seat.

"I'm not going to make you come. I was hoping you'd want to. If you really don't want to go to Mounts Bay with me for the week, tell the driver and he can take you on home. But you used to be my best friend, Sherlock."

"Used to be?" He glanced up at that, looking mildly surprised before a scowl took to his features instead. "Oh, right. You're married to her."

"That's not-" John pursed his lips tight, steeling himself for one final try. "Sherlock, do you want to spend the week with me in Cornwall?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Fine."

"Yes. Right, then." John took one last deep breath, letting it out in exasperation. "Next time try not to be such a tit about it."

Sherlock chuckled, the warm tone welcome in the early spring though it was still winter in his complexion. "And yet somehow you've missed me. Does Mary know about these masochistic tendencies of yours?"

"I forgot you were a comedian," John said with a smile. His companion's lips rose the same, his eyes falling closed with his chin to his chest. John let his hand press against his dark hair to check for fever, combing through curls as he let his bangs fall back in place. "It'll be fun, Sherlock. Better still, it'll do you some good."

"Nn," Sherlock hummed, a few short breaths away from sleep.

John let the conversation die there, watching the manic man drift off soundly to the rumble of pavement. It wouldn't be a long trip to Paddington station but if Sherlock Holmes was dozing then he certainly needed the reprieve.

It didn't feel like six months. Looking at him there it seemed like just last week Sherlock had been complaining about wearing a tie, nearly as hungover as John was from the stag do the night before. It seemed like yesterday he'd packed his things from his room upstairs, having the odd row over what was missing. It could have easily been just a few hours ago that they'd sat down to a deluxe game of _Guess Who?_ with the skull jokingly there to moderate. It also could have been years, though. Decades. Centuries. He'd gravitated towards Sherlock almost as quickly as he'd pulled away, boomeranged in his presence like a planet around the sun. Very loyal, very quickly and now just as absent.

Quietly as he could, John took the phone from his coat pocket, thumbing through the options till he was back to his text message threads. Mary's was at the top--most recent--with Sherlock's requiring several scrolls down. _"Bored,"_ they read. _"Bored. Bored. Fifth page, second story: Dr. Moore Agar. Bored. [picture of corpse]. E string broke. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. ~ Sorry to hear that, Sherlock. It's your turn in Words w/ Friends. Good job, Sherlock. That's... nice. I'm sure you can buy another. I'm busy. I'm working. You'll figure something out, Sherlock."_

John scrolled back up to the top, clicking Mary's name before thumbing in one last quick goodbye. _"Thank you,"_ he typed, breath caught in his chest, and sent it off with a brief kiss to the display.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock slept the whole journey to Cornwall. It was as good an escape from boredom as any, tucked away in his coat, arms folded against his lap, and John hadn't the heart to rouse him either way. He half wished he'd gone ahead and splurged a bit on a sleeping carriage but still doubted his long-legged friend would have found much more comfort there than in his seat with his legs crossed out in front of him. Six hours rest would do him well either way. John read in the seat beside him, licking his thumb before turning the crisp white pages to continue on in the adventures therein.

He'd taken to reading quite a bit more since his own adventures had ended. The vicarious thrill was hardly the same thing—a nicotine patch to the smoker—but still it took the edge off as he felt himself immersed in the adventures of clever men and their mysteries. His wife had bought him an Agatha Christie novel back when they had been dating—a joking response to his blog prose. The shelves in his at-home study now included Raymond Chandler, Len Deighton, Frederick Forsyth, and Ken Follett among others. He quite enjoyed reading. It was a quiet hobby far removed from trench warfare or streetlamp scuffles but it was still real in some ways in which the memories had stopped being. It was safer, just as Mary preferred, and the further removed from the adrenalin rush of his own exploits time brought him, John almost preferred it better this way himself. Those adventures could be put on hold for dinner with his wife. Those victims would be taken care of by the end of the book, even if it took him weeks to read it rather than a weekend. Those villains would be brought to light whether he was on the loo or a speeding train. John could live a normal life with those adventures bound to printed pages. Sherlock was a living, breathing event that happened, passed, and came around again with something new that required nothing short of one's full attention from start to finish. As a bachelor John had opted for the event. As a man of responsibility, John was surprisingly satisfied with books.

It was nine chapters and a nap before the train pulled up to their station. Page dog-eared and book secured, John carried both his bags and Sherlock's out to the depot and further to the cab. Sherlock followed, his previously used overnight bag all he bothered to burden himself with. Despite his ample rest, were it not for the winding roads, John was rather certain Sherlock would have gone right back to sleep once seated in further transit.

"What on Earth did you spend all your time doing in rehab that didn't include sleep?" John asked as the cab pressed his shoulder to Sherlock's on a wide turn around ruins of rock.

Sherlock shrugged, his smirk small but evident even in the dark. "Making the staff very, very sorry to see me," he said.

John laughed through his nose in unsympathetic accord.

The cab trip, to some relief, was not terribly long. John watched the purple sky of dusk fold into the darkness of full night through the window, catching shadows of points of interests along the grassy hills and plains. Lights from fishing villages and other small hamlets sparkled in the distance. They drove through the small town closest to their lodgings where all the lights were off save for a few houses on the outskirts of the main road. It was small, quaint, and isolated given the bustle of London they'd left. Even with the window closed, John could still almost smell the sea.

Pulling up the worn path of dirt and grass, the shack on the cliff looked demure and unassuming, humbled further below the vast splatter of stars. Its white, plaster-covered stone walls were bumpy and uneven, shaded heavily under the lashes of the thickly thatched roof. Not far behind it the small windmill spun lazily on the night breeze, spinning on the sea's breath that was as calm and even as sleep. The lights were all out but the pattern of lace curtains could still be seen against the unshaded windows in the moonlight. John smiled optimistically at their tea cozy abode. It was charming. It was peaceful. He listened to Sherlock sigh in resignation beside him.

The first night there was nothing much else to do than simply designate rooms and call it an evening. Unpacking could wait and a trip to the store was needed before fresh milk and other sundries could be purchased. There were two rooms upstairs, the large one a double and the other with a bunk. Sherlock took the double without consultation, throwing his bag down inside the doorway before taking his turn as first to the toilet. John didn't care enough to argue, finding the bunk comfortable enough for the time being before dozing off at last himself.

He hadn't felt such quiet since his nights in Afghanistan where the calls of animals and insects were none and even the enemy found time to rest. Where before the hum of dunes made up the white noise of the night, now John had the rustle of waves on rocks, tumbling like the wind through trees with not a single sound of the city to accompany. It was almost too peaceful. John found himself rising with the sun out of annoyance more than necessity. At least in the light of day the gulls' caw could be heard.

Scratching his left shoulder with a yawn on his lips, John went down the creaking steps slowly, hand on the rail as he descended into the living quarters he'd only spared a passing glance to before. It was everything the travel guide had said it would be—for better or for worse. The seating was mostly wood from the benches below the large windows to chairs set before the fire and along the wood plank table. The rugs at least looked warm and soft in their mint and robin's egg weavings. The windows themselves were the showcase of the rooms, framing a view of jagged rocks and clear waters that seemed too perfect to be real rather than art. Originally built as a wartime coastal observatory, the shack had everything a person could ask for in a view but remained somewhat lacking in the comforts of home. The limited electricity was supplied by the windmill out back, the rest of the meager appliances fuelled by gas. John located the small booklet on safety procedures and utility use and set it plainly on the table for light reading later on.

He checked the cabinets for supplies. Four cups, four dinner plates, four mugs, four sets of cutlery, one kettle and pot, a few pans and cast-iron cookware for use on the hearth or the cooker. There were a few spices not much more exotic than salt and pepper and a box of baking soda in the fridge for freshness though a faint fishy odor had obviously permeated the appliance. Certainly nothing for breakfast. John had had the foresight to pack a few things such as tea, coffee, a sleeve or two of biscuits and a small box of granola—none of which sounded satisfactory without the odds and ends still lacking. Early as it was, if he left and saw to the shopping, there might be enough time for even a full English breakfast by the time his slothenly companion arose once more.

It meant getting behind the wheel of the Land Rover parked in the back before Sherlock commandeered it.

John checked for his wallet and nabbed the keys, leaving a quickly scrawled note on the table before heading out on his own back towards the hamlet they'd passed through before.

Limited electricity, possibly limited mobile network reception, no city excitement—nothing but the earth, the sky, the sea and each other. John tried to quell the rising fear that this had all been a rather terrible idea and as far removed from what Sherlock needed as another six months on his own.

 

Tredannick Wollas could not have been home to more than a couple hundred people, comprised of simple cottages and a moss-covered old church whose steeple paved the way where roads were lost. John had rather a bit more fun than originally intended as he took the mud-washed roads and, at times, the off-road options in his meandering trip towards civilization. Admittedly, not all the off-road excursions had been planned from the start. It had been a long time since he'd been behind the wheel of a vehicle and the army sorts handled a bit differently. The Land Rover was certainly no desert terrain ambulance though neither were the moors particularly desert-like either. His back tires slid and he bounced on the springs of his shocks in a jarring fashion as flat land gave way to banks and bumps which were avoidable, surely, at a slower speeds and with some element of experience behind the wheel—both of which he lacked either by carelessness or the foils of city life. It was fun until it wasn’t. By the time he neared the shops the Land Rover was quite assuredly covered in the spray of mud from dew-mellowed paths with a few chunks of grassy earth stuck here and there as if to say ‘beware the idiot who thought he could drive’. But the day was bright above the mist of morning and the traffic, on foot and by car, was light even within the limits of the hamlet. With far less trouble than when he’d started, John took to the paved roads in a semblance of trained proficiency and pulled up to an empty row of parking spaces along the square outside the lanes of shops that boxed him in. He agonized his way into mostly one but effectively still two empty spots, not wanting to make an arse of himself in giving it multiple attempts though filled with second-hand annoyance at his own hypocrisy given remarks he often made about large vehicles and the size of the arsehole’s cock that’d left it as an inconvenience to others. He'd just be quick about it, he consoled himself. Just a few sundries. Careful of the slip of moisture on the paved road, John hurried towards the local shop with its plastic sign hung in the window reading ‘open’.

The young man behind the counter gave him an odd look as John gave a short nod of hello from inside the cozy shop. For a town quite used to its share of tourists, small at is it was, the look was hardly one of lost recognition or general, service industry pleasantness. His open stare nearly reeked of accusation and John could hardly pretend not to know why. He'd let Sherlock do the driving next time and not a word need be spoken on it. Clearing his throat he grabbed a hand basket and made his way down the short-shelved aisles, grabbing a few tins of baked beans and Spam, a couple of packs of sausages and other assorted foods he could easily store in their tins. Holidays were hardly the time to devote much to the creation of meals—especially when the need to impress was nil while the want to connect was great. Easy items were the ticket, heat-and-go types of meals that would satisfy in less than half an hour and leave just as little to be cleaned up. It being a fishing town, one couldn’t argue against a few proper meals all the same. A bit of curry sauce for fish, then, and condiments in general; some kitchen roll and a loaf of crusty bread. Even as he mentally checked off the list of things he’d need to feed two men for a few days, the young man at the counter’s eyes followed him with the same unsympathetic stare as though taking similar catalogue of everything that was touched. It was unnerving and irritating, the skin on the back of John’s neck prickling with unease. He was still idling over bar soaps when at last another patron entered the shop, the door soundless as it opened but familiarity making the announcement all the same.

"Morning, Harry."

"Morning, Vicar," the young man at the counter called.

John glanced over at the man of reprieve, shifting little but his eyes. The vicar couldn't have been more than thirty, a baby-faced man with a full head of dark hair and a grey jumper pulled over the black vestments of his order. He had a kindly look about him which did not add much in the manner of years. Everyone seemed to be getting younger as John got older and he was still far too young himself to be having such thoughts, even if his knees did complain now and then and his hair was more silver than ash blonde. John turned his attention back to the toiletries and tossed in a bottle of Trek & Travel and left thoughts on old bones to settle elsewhere.

"Ah, you must be the gentleman from The Look Out House."

John paused and gazed back up, watching as the young vicar crossed down the store's aisle towards him, the short trek not taking more than a few steps. John slipped the basket over his elbow, offering a hand to shake as the man extended his own in greeting. "Yes, yes. We, uh... we got in last night. How'd you know which-"

"The Land Rover." The vicar smiled, his handshake firm. "Sort of recognizable. The Look Out House is the only place near enough that requires one of them to get around, especially when the weather's bad. I hope the climate remains agreeable during your stay, Mister...?"

"Doctor, actually. Dr. John Watson."

"Stephan Roundhay," the vicar said in introduction. He looked a little older up close, dark rings under his brown eyes and the shallow beginnings of crow’s feet far more noticeable at close inspection. John could imagine the many late nights spent writing up the Sunday’s sermon with no backlog to refer to that had sunk the shadows and carved the lines. "If you are ever in need of anything, you and your family are more than welcome to come by the vicarage," the man continued. "You certainly wouldn't be the first patrons of the Look Out House to seek companionship. It's lovely out there on the headland but quite isolating."

"Probably why it was the only spot available out this way on short notice." John smiled, shifting his basket to his hand again. "I think we'll be okay, though. I'm with a friend. Sort of looking for some rest and relaxation away from London."

"You'll certainly find it there," the vicar said with a laugh, giving John's arm a warm pat. "Just popped in to grab some milk but should you ever find yourself in town again with time to spare, do stop by. I'd be interested to hear about the goings on of London these days. Not much more than fish stories out here."

"Right. Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind." John nodded, making way for the vicar as he walked on past. He very much doubted Sherlock would be interested in spending time with the locals but there was no need to presume. They might come down for lunch at some time. Look around. People watch. It was hard to gauge exactly how things would go and an open invitation was always fair to welcome. John didn’t bother to give it much more thought than that as he gave the vicar a head start then followed slowly behind him once the cold item storage was vacated for him to grab meats, cheeses and milk all his own.

By the time John'd collected everything, he’d been left alone again with the judgmental youth behind the counter. With the vicar absent, he seemed to have little reason not to continue staring, following John with his eyes at all times though quick to look away if John faced him. John wasn’t sure what correlation existed between not knowing how to park a large vehicle and shoplifting but apparently one existed in the mind of the young man. It was far more irritating than it had any reason to be and he clenched his left hand defensively. So he couldn't park the Land Rover; did that make him some kind of unruly maniac looking to pocket a packet of Chewits? Kids these days. Shopping done, he put his basket on the counter, giving the clerk a just-try-me stare as the boy rang up and bagged his goods. Even then he kept staring at him, quickly looking away when John looked up from his wallet.

"What?" John finally asked, hackles raised as far as they could go.

The young man jumped slightly, looking back with color in his cheeks and a worried pinch to his chapped lips. He took a deep breath then from behind the counter slid across a receipt book and a biro. "C-can I get your autograph, Dr. Watson, sir?" he asked with a nervous stammer.

Feeling like the world's largest git, John scribbled his name, paid, and hurried of back towards the shack with nothing but regrets towards his morning.

 

The drive home was uneventful, winding and longer than he remembered but with a clear destination in the shape of the rolling windmill gesturing out on the isolated headland. He parked the Land Rover back where he’d found it, no need to fit between any lines when all that stood to mark its place were tracks in the mud and shallow puddles for wheel indentations. John scooped the bags on over his forearms and opened the unlocked door, tossing the bags on the table to be parsed through and unpacked. He whistled to himself as he did so, picking a song at random that seemed to fit his mood which was improving now that he had distance from the embarrassments of before. It didn’t take long at all before he had sausages in the cast-iron pan along with a few cracked eggs set to sizzle beside them in their fatty grease till both were cooked. There was no sign of Sherlock in the kitchen nor the den. The floorboards above did not creak with footsteps. The pipes did not rattle with the sound of water rushing through the plumbing from a shower or a piss. John hadn’t honestly expected him to be awake. His body needed sleep even if John felt the isolation of dreams was far from what the rest of him needed. There was the mind to be worried for and at the root of it perhaps even a heart. Certainly his stomach could not go without attention either. John hurried up the stairwell back towards the hall of bedrooms above with his eggs and sausage left unattended as they rested on the still-warm skillet. Sherlock’s door was shut and he knocked gently to rouse without the intent to startle.

"Sherlock? You awake?" he called above a whisper.

There was no reply. John knocked once more then tried the door as the silence continued to grow uncomfortable in its constancy. The brass handle turned easily in his palm, no lock set to hamper the slow retraction of its core from the frame. John pulled up against tired hinges to keep the squeak to a groan and peeked inside the larger bedroom as he pushed the door away.

The bed was empty but unmade; the covers pulled off leaving nothing but the sheets behind, rumpled and twisted from sleep. Sherlock's bag was still beside the door, unopened and unpacked while his overnight bag sat beside the bed in a similar state. John stepped inside, looking around, for a moment somewhat struck by a fear he would not allow himself to name that always concerned itself with the worst. He needn’t have worried. Quickly scanning more of the room revealed large bay windows that overlooked the cliffs and waves to the south, and Sherlock sitting cocooned in his thick, brown blanket, staring out into the rocks with a rumpled lean against the glass. His hair was more disheveled and twisted than his sheets, his face just as white with the weak morning sun bleaching away what the dusk had gifted. It was hard to see that his eyes were even open save for the moments when he blinked and the black lashes fluttered. He didn't seem to notice or care that John was there, mesmerized by the swirl of the bay.

John walked up behind him, leaning against the wall beside where Sherlock sat as he took in the view for himself. It was endless. The white surge of the wakes as they broke against black rocks was a constant rush of destructive force made calming in their rhythmic crash. Everything was cast in a masque of grey from the sea to the sky, the grass and the clouds, except for the rocks and the kiss of broken waves. The Look Out House was closer to the cliff’s edge than John had guessed from the pictures, even closer than it looked when driving up from the town. Above the garden, sights set far beyond the sheer drop below the waving grass, it was almost like being suspended in the air, the glass an illusion and the elements magically held at bay. "Beautiful, hm?"

Sherlock nodded minutely, shock still in all other perceivable ways as he sat like a marble statue.

"I went with some mates to Lizard Point once. Gave surfing a try. Ended up with a rash, a sunburn, and half a toenail missing. Great trip. The bonfires at night were amazing." John looked down, watching the pale, expressionless face reflected against the glass as it registered nothing as he spoke, mesmerized as it was by the ebb and flow outside. It would have been nice at any other time to just be in quiet company. Sherlock and he often were. There was always two possibilities with Sherlock when he was in one of his moods: deathly silence or the petulance of a child. Childishness meant he wanted attention but didn’t know how to ask for it. John had yet to work out what he meant by silence but had learned to fear it for what it often concealed. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he haunted the room with the other ghosts of an unkind past. "You okay, Sherlock?” he asked, feeling his throat constrict slightly on words he was still unprepared to speak and listen to. Other questions, then; other thoughts. “I know you've been busy. I read the papers. Always check to see where you've been mentioned. I know how you like to keep busy. But... Are you okay, though?"

"As opposed to lying on the ground, throwing a perpetual tantrum over things far outside my ability to change?" Sherlock smirked, his smile knowing as his reflection locked eyes with John in a backdrop of battered rocks and foam. "Yes, John," he said, as another wave broke across the mirror image of his face. "I'm alright."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was a terrible liar.

John had seen him in action enough to know he was rather fantastic at it if he wanted to be. He was an actor, a performer, someone who could take on the guise of anyone imaginable and make his own mother believe it. Sherlock could be outstanding in the realms of imagination when he applied himself. Problem was he rarely bothered to when it came to John. Too many tricks played, too many moments of trust betrayed, and in the end Sherlock paid for it all in honesty forever more. But only for John. For John every lie was grossly transparent, offering little more than the chance to maintain ignorance. Sometimes John wished he would just stand up and bluster around the shack with the force of hurricane in some semblance of his normal manic moods. Eventually it wouldn't be pretend. With enough repetition, eventually it would feel normal to move and act like the Sherlock John knew even in his absence. Even alone on the headland, though, surrounded by history, beauty and little else, it didn't feel like just being together again was quite enough to make things right.

Sherlock took the tallest of the crude walking sticks they'd found leaning against the firewood stack as they traveled out into the moors, well bundled for the winds and lightly burdened for the trek. They each wore a side-satchel, though Sherlock's remained empty for the time being, meant to collect odds and fascinating ends from the ground while John carted thermoses of hot tea, cold milk, biscuits and a blanket to set down for comfort in his own. He felt a bit like the old men he'd use to mock when he was a boy, the sorts who picked up litter as a hobby and belonged to rambling societies. He wasn't old enough yet to be that dull, he figured. His hands felt cold as he stabbed at the rich green earth with his own weathered branch.

The worlds’ only consulting detective took to the change of scene quite well. Not entirely fond of the country to start with, the singular charm of a land scattered with ruins of forgotten dominions had enchanted him far enough from their windows and hearth to inspect the stone slab relics of times lost. He walked in silence. Much to John's displeasure, Sherlock took use of his long gait and kept ahead by several paces, as quiet as the vestigial walls they followed, deep in his own solitary meditations. John tried to spark the odd conversation but nothing seemed to stick. "Hm," he'd hum in some noncommittal reply to remarks about the moss or creeping yew and ivy. He flat out ignored most other comments about the air smelling nice or the path being a bit slippery. Dull topics, he knew, but one didn't break out with " _So how long have you been back on cocaine?_ " while lightly panting from an expansive incline.

They stopped for a rest next to what was likely an old church. Less than half of the building still stood though at over ten feet the lonely walls were impressive on their own. The stone slabs didn't look to be all that sturdy—like a very old game of Jenga just waiting for the right slab to slip to send the whole thing crumbling. The walls didn't seem to mind a six foot tall man climbing over what could have been windows and pressing against ancient alters, though. John took out the blanket and set it out on a flat square of earth, taking seat under the shadow of a vanished ancestry. He unscrewed the caps off the thermoses and poured out two steaming cups of tea. He popped a few cubes of sugar in Sherlock's before passing it over, his friend's good timing allowing him to be served just as he took his seat beside him, looking down the moor towards the black cliffs where the sounds of the sea forever followed.

John broke the plastic wrapping off a pack of chocolate digestives and set it down between them, bending his legs as he sat forward to watch the clouds for a change. "Roman, you think?"

"Possibly." Sherlock snapped a biscuit in half, dipping one part into his tea while the other sat in the wrapper with the rest. "The design is consistent with that found in the surrounding villages, though, making it seem more likely to simply be the remains of an early Cornish settlement."

"Mm. Wonder what made them abandon it." John said as he helped himself to the other half of Sherlock's biscuit.

"Weather, I'd imagine. Close to the cliffs, plenty of storm surges. Possibly open for attack from ships as well. With the bay-facing walls destroyed, the best possible guess is that whatever it was, it came from the sea."

"Don't really see too many churches without a village nearby, though, do you? So... wooden houses rotted and swept away?"

Sherlock smiled, nodding slightly, as he broke another biscuit in two.

They stayed sat there for over an hour while their shade slowly turned to sun. They spoke about early Roman colonization and of trades with the Phoenicians and more. Sherlock knew quite a bit about piracy on the Cornish peninsula and John wordlessly took all of it in, listening to the quiet passion in his friend's voice as he regaled upon smugglers and thieves. John stretched out his legs and laid his head to the ground. It was beyond comfortable in the late afternoon air and John wouldn't have found anything amiss with a light nap. Though his feet tired of walking, his brain never gave rest to the concern that had brought him here.

"So how's work?" he asked once conversation had died to silence once more, flexing his feet first right then left as he glanced at the dark monolith of Sherlock's coat-covered back.

Sherlock's shoulders rose in a shrug as he leant back on his palms. "Busy," he said, reiterating John's own statements from earlier.

"Yeah, I know that. But how are things at the Yard and the like? Any danger that didn't make it to the papers? Seems like the best cases were the ones that only made it as far as my blog."

The detective sighed. "There've been a few chases. Three involved gun fire, I was nearly hanged on another, and in all cases I made the perpetrator look like the least intelligent criminal known to man. Mostly petty theft in all honesty, though. A rare thing it will be the day mankind disproves the theory that all life is inherently selfish and self-serving. Not that I'd have much of a job if people genuinely cared about one another. I supposed I'm the most guilty of profiteering of them all."

John scowled at the back of his head. "Where's all this coming from, then?"

"Experience. Observation. Please don't start with that ghost of Christmas past, people love people, charity and good will towards men rubbish. Even most religions base good deeds on future personal gain. It's just the way the world works. It's not a bitter sentiment; it's simple fact." Sherlock leant his head back, bright eyes peeking around at John's frown with their usual sharpness. "As though to prove my point, not everything I have to say is in some way a reflection on you."

"Well, excuse me. I think I would have remembered if my best friend were a fatalist."

"Realist."

"Pessimist."

Sherlock shrugged, his hair long enough to scrunch like a loaded spring at the nape of his neck. "Either way, I'm not mad at you for getting married and having a new life without me. You don't need to apologize with holidays or gifts and what I do in my own time is not relative to your own habits. We both have our own, individual lives now. That's what people do. People grow apart."

"Yeah, well, we're not going to," John said, sitting up on his elbows. "Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, nothing's ever stopped you before, but you're not ready to just leave it as us growing apart either. You're here, aren't you?"

The detective said nothing, his body stone still as a strong breeze blew over them. John sighed and sat up fully, packing up the half-eaten pack of biscuits and making sure the lids were fastened tight to their thermoses. He didn't want a fight. Day one and the last thing he needed was a cold walk home to the isolated shack with regrets on top of concerns piling up in his chest.

"Up you get," John instructed, giving the blanket a gentle tug. "We should pack up and start back home for a proper meal before we wander too far out."

Sherlock complied, rolling off to the side of the blanket as he stood up, dusting grass from his shins while John folded the cloth at his feet. "If I hadn't come," he started, "If I'd declined and asked to go home, would you have come by to see me or would you have spent your time between work and home as you normally do?"

John paused for a moment, head down as he pressed the patterned corners together between his hands. "You saying you came because it was the only way to be sure I'd spare some time for you?"

"That is my answer, yes. What is yours?"

He tucked the blanket into his satchel, adding in the rest of the items one by one, eyes to the soil till he rose up on the balls of his feet, lips pressed into a firm line. "In my defense, I was the one who extended the invitation," he said. "Maybe I wouldn't have made the time either way but you have to meet me halfway. Or, apparently, in Cornwall."

Sherlock kept his eyes steady on him, cold and calm but powerful as the sea. "We won't always be here."

"I know. But that's not just something only I need to work on. You could come by sometime. Call. We could just... talk. Like normal blokes."

"Hardly." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he started walking back down the path they'd ventured forth on, his steps smaller this time to allow John to keep pace.

John shook his head. "You could start by acting like you have even a remote interest in my life."

"You're a doctor. Doctors are boring."

"Not everything I do is related to head-colds. Besides which, me and my other mates don't just sit around talking about work all the time. There are other things."

"Fine then. So, John, how is the sex? Quite good or just fairly good?"

The hairs along John's back and arms stood straight in a cold shiver, his face puckering on instinct with the forced charm in Sherlock's voice. "Know what? Never mind. Should have known you'd take the piss."

"Just being 'one of the guys'."

"Yeah, well, stop. You're terrible at it."

"What am I supposed to ask you about then?" Sherlock's frustration seeped through just slightly but enough to fall to John's radar. He looked up, Sherlock's face obscured by the pop of his collar. The detective continued, "I think your work is boring, I don't care to idle my time with sports, the movies and programs you like are to me transparent and dull, and I firmly believe that the fact that you no longer spend your hours in my company is the greatest tragedy to ever befall you. Truthfully, John, the only thing we ever had in common was the fact that you and I both think I'm brilliant."

John watched him for a moment, catching glimpses of his furrowed brow when the wind swept his curls back and away. "Never were the humble sort," he said.

"Never mattered," Sherlock conceded.

John smiled just slightly, trying not to be dissuaded by the truth in his words. "Well... we've got the rest of the week to figure out what you and I can still have together."

"I liked it when it was me."

"I know. So did I."

They carried on down the lost roads of ages back towards the lonely Look Out House in relative silence. They were still miles out when the winds began to press harder against their chests. What had started as clear skies turned to grey over the bay as the crash of crests against the black rocks roared louder almost than the rustling leaves. They ran the last several yards, boots slipping on the dampened grass as they flew to escape the coming downpour. That was the risk of a spring retreat near the sea. John watched Sherlock duck inside as he himself stooped to gather wood from the tarp-lined pile for the night. At least there would be no risk of a power outage with the winds throwing the sails of the windmill in happy circles. Sherlock held the door open as John rushed inside with his arms full, the wooden exit slamming shut in the absence of his counter force against it.

John set the wood beside the fireplace, shaking his dampened coat from his shoulders as he knelt down by the floor. The late afternoon looked more like evening through the windows with a dust colored sky chasing away the clouded blue. He rubbed warmth into his hands as he stared at the ashen logs from that morning. He'd get another fire going. Get the kettle going. Heat up a pot of beans and see about grilling the fish in the freezer. The rain hardly put a damper on the day but rather added its own randomness to the mounting uncertainty. It was a topic of conversation, at least, though neither of them said a word.

John was pleased but somehow not surprised when a towel dropped over his hair and shoulders after heavy footsteps returned from the bathroom cabinet. John rubbed the damp from his hair as he watched Sherlock, shoulders draped, help himself to the kitchen to fill the kettle with fresh water and set the burner on high. After years of living together, domestic details were second nature. Sherlock lit the burner with a black hooded match then carried the box over to John for the fire, not a word need spoken between them. There was tea and a warm hearth within a handful of minutes with two gentlemen sat on the floor under towels with mugs in their hands. The flickering firelight made shadows dance even under the light of the lamps. John breathed deep, filling his lungs with the smell of burning elm and English Breakfast.

"There must be something very wrong with two people who care about each other more than almost anything else but still don't know how to be friends," John said at last, lips pressed to the top of his steaming mug.

Sherlock nodded quietly beside him while the firelight drew his shadows into the ghostly haze of a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Domesticity seemed the height of the duo's corroborative skills. Without need of conversation they knew exactly how to share the communal rooms like the kitchen and bathroom, the right-handed/left-handed battle fought and won in years past till all the concessions and compromises were stone set and second nature. Soap on the right, toothbrushes on the left next to the toothpaste with the cap on but not screwed down. A towel over the lip of the tub to put down as a mat. Clothes in a pile in the corner and a cloth on the counter to dry hands but more importantly the mirror if a shower fogged it over. They rearranged the living room so the couch was further back and two chairs were more present near the fire. The kitchen table already had a few items from their walk set up for Sherlock's consideration. Six months of trying to learn Mary's preferences had left John just a little impressed by their bachelor efficiency. Even if it wasn't ideal for some people, it was rather perfect for Sherlock and himself.

With the fire crackling away at his feet, John sat quite comfortably in one of the wooden chairs, a book in his hands as their breakfast sat heavy in his gut. He could hear overhead the light stomping of Sherlock's feet as he dressed from his bath, making John smile in past relief that his had not been the second floor bedroom. It was nice all the same. Routine. Warmer than an army's barracks but just as ordered despite the assuming chaos. Home. John breathed in deeply, exhaling through his nose as he turned the page, following his latest hero through an open door at the behest of a femme fatale. He rather liked the way the author described her breasts as "buoyant". It painted an excellent picture in his mind's eye of the sort of bouncy walk some women had that left their breasts in a constant wave of motion like buoys close to shore.

He was only a few pages into his next chapter when Sherlock trod back into the den, dressed sharply in a pair of denim jeans and belt, his plain white dress shirt tucked in but unbuttoned to the sternum. Mary had packed "outfits" while John had just made sure there were far more socks than were really necessary for a week retreat. He hadn't seen Sherlock in jeans in... well, it warranted far too long a pause for thought. He couldn't help but smirk at the snug fit along the slender, almost spindly legs that seemed longer than humanly possible. "I am beginning to think Mary might have a thing for your bum," he noted as Sherlock turned to grab his laptop from the kitchen counter before joining John at the fire.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting down with none of his usual grace as he set the computer over his crossed knee. "Your wife has been admiring my backside since you were both dating. Not exactly front page news."

"Color me scandalized," John quipped, chuckling to himself as he turned his attention back to the page. He rather liked quiet mornings. Nearly all his mornings in 221B had been of the quiet sort with Sherlock doing one thing and John enjoying another, sharing space like astral bodies crossing paths but never colliding. Mary liked to chat while John tried to read the news. He'd gotten used to the interruptions but still rather enjoyed the immersion of silent companionship. One of married life's many concessions. But not right now. Now the hero was pacing the dark room, gun drawn, dame clinging to his jacket for safety as they waited for an ambush or full on attack.

About the time the hero had found a third dead body, this one dumped behind the hotel in a skip, Sherlock had lost interest in his own entertainment pursuits. John hadn't noticed himself under his friend's observant stare, engrossed as he was, but soon the intensity of it caused his head to roll up from the typeface to see himself under full scrutiny. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded to the book. "You actually enjoy those things."

"Is that so surprising?"

"Yes. They're terrible."

John scowled, his nose crinkling over his thin lips. "They are not terrible. Lots of them are really very good. It might not be as clinical and realistic as those true crime books you go on about but plot-wise I think you'd be surprised. Right up your alley, really."

"A bible's worth of dribble concocted by an idiot." Sherlock had the laptop closed on his knee, his cheek propped against one fist as he gestured with the other. "After all your time in observation of me, how can you ever really consider that sort of vomit entertainment? Mystery writers have no idea what they're doing. They make up details which allude to one aspect of a character but then completely derail reality in a reversal based on the fact that they don't actually understand what those details mean themselves. They'll put everything there which says the man has sleep apnea and a neighbor whose dog keeps him up all night but then turn him into a deep sleeper in a set of upscale flats. It's just words; pretty arrangements of letters which spell out nonsense to idle minds that have nothing more important to conceive of themselves."

The more Sherlock ranted on the stupidity of the mystery genre, the less he needed to. John could have easily finished it for him. " _Write what you know_ " had always been his instruction in primary school English classes when assigned some creative topic to prove he possessed an imagination that could conform to scholastic standards. A writer with sleep apnea might write certain habits into a character not realizing they were indicative to their own personal experience with sleep rather than the norm. It was curious in a way how much Sherlock would probably be able to deduce about a writer from mistakes in characterizing their characters. Sherlock's vast wall of nonfiction suddenly made a lot more sense. Reading fiction to a mind like Sherlock's must be as discombobulating as any man reading a book upside-down.

John scratched behind his ear, listening to him go on, full of understanding but irritated all the same by his tone. "If you're so appalled, why don't you try writing a book, then?"

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at the suggestion, setting the laptop on the floor beside his chair. "Waste of my time. What's the phrase? Those who can, do? Well, I can. No point in making up what there is to find for myself in the world."

John nodded slowly, lips pursed. "Well... I can't. It's nice to pretend sometimes that I still can, though." He paused to watch the fire dim in Sherlock's argumentative eyes, clearing his throat of the sudden thickness lodged in it.

Though the fire was dim, it had not died. Sherlock's more somber approach lacked in little insistence. "You still could."

"Mary wouldn't be too pleased if I made a habit of it. If they were just those nice, calm cases with the stolen broaches and missing treasures that would be one thing. But even those cases tend to turn into something bigger. And my priorities have changed now. I have someone waiting for me at home where in the past if I didn't go, I would be the one waiting up, worried the next phone call would be from Lestrade telling me to hurry down to Barts while they wheeled you into surgery." John's mouth felt dry, his muscles oddly tense. "I still dread that call," he admitted, voice going slightly hoarse. It seemed such a simple thing to say but behind it the dam he'd constructed seemed weaker for it, emotions seeping out where the braces were no longer holding firm. It had to come out one way or another before they returned to London. He took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling for a second before giving up on tact and doing as his friend had always done: say exactly what he was thinking. "You... you really have no idea what it was like getting a late night call from the Detective Inspector that night you got yourself arrested. I have never been happier to be told you were in possession of drugs. I'd already had you decapitated and eviscerated in my head before I picked up and said hello. And all I could think about was how I'd been clipping my toenails, watching telly with a packet of crisps and how... wasted my time was spent when I could have instead been protecting you."

Sherlock seemed taken off-guard, his posture straighter and shoulders back in a gentleman's defense. His face quickly washed to vacant, divorced of all but wit and annoyance. "How long has that been on your chest?" he asked flatly.

"God... every second since I saw it was Lestrade calling." John breathed deep again, something in his chest needing more air than the room could provide. He hated how hard it was to pretend it didn't affect him. He still wanted to hit him. He wanted to shake Sherlock and scream at him and sit him in a corner to think about what he'd done. And he hated how well he knew the futility of it all. "I gave you hell pacing through my study. For days all I could think about was what I could possibly be doing with my life that is more important than being there where you need me and at the same time reminding myself that I'm not responsible for your well-being and that it's stupid to put so much blame on myself. And that's just after a call where everything's more or less alright. The day you get shot—or god forbid killed—I don't know what I'm going to do. Because I will always believe I could have saved you. Not that you think about that when you do something stupid."

"Lestrade really scared you that badly?"

"You scare me. Sherlock, it's _you_ who charges in without a thought to himself, chasing answers and expecting his body to come along regardless of condition. The way you live frankly terrifies me when I'm not there to look after you. You don't even look where you're going half the time but with me there at least someone had your back."

Sherlock began to look affronted, a scowl deepening against his brow as he sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before his chest. "You should have more faith in me than that."

"You got arrested for cocaine."

"Don't act like that proves your point." The detective scrunched his face with impunity. "You know how many alcohol related deaths occur every year? No one's arresting you for having a wine rack."

"You are comparing apples and oranges and you know it."

"I'm not the one who got married. I remember quite clearly telling you it was a terrible idea and here I am, right as usual."

"Getting married wasn't wrong. Falling in love was not wrong. The only thing I have done to you is think about myself for once."

"Then don't criticize me when I do the same."

The knock at the door could not have come at a better time. John wasn't sure at what point they'd both stood, at what point he'd risen on his soles to get in Sherlock's face, at what point Sherlock had come to stand with his hands planted on his hips, head pulled back in disgust of John's advance. He wasn't sure at what point the conversation had become a fight. But the knock made them both pause, attention diverted, as they waited for the percussive reprise.

_Knock, knock, knock!_

They both turned to look at the door, seeing through the open windows two men looking back in at them, their faces perhaps even more wary than their own.

"That's the vicar," John said, remembering the young man's face from the day before.

"That's a client," Sherlock corrected. He rubbed his hands together with interest, the past five minutes forgotten as he made his way purposefully across the den towards the door where the men were waiting.

John scoffed as he followed. "Out here? Now? Sherlock, vicars are known to make house-calls, you know."

Sherlock ignored him as he held open the front door. The vicar's ashen face did not even attempt a smile as he stood before them, his dog collar crooked and his grey cardigan buttoned up with missing holes and extra buttons. "Sorry to disturb you. I was hoping to speak with Dr. Watson," he said, the man in his company giving Sherlock a hard look of consideration.

"Dr. Watson is no longer in my employ. You may direct all your inquiries to me," Sherlock stood aside, holding the door open with a disastrous grin on his face. "Don't doddle; you'll let the chill in."

John was only a few steps behind Sherlock, more than near enough to shoulder his way in front of him with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, you'll have to excuse my friend. He's a-" vicar present, "-jerk. Something I can help you with?"

"Actually-"

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" The companion asked. He was dressed far more like a gentleman than a fisherman with a thickly grown beard defending his age.

Sherlock nodded just once, his eyes invested in the details of the stranger while the vicar's brightened slightly with an almost hopeful gleam. "Harry down at the store said he recognized John from his blog. Said you both worked on just these sorts of things."

"What sort of things exactly?" John asked, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head that cautioned him to not get them involved, to turn them away now before they could say another word and trap them all in Sherlock's curiosity.

"The sort that have the power to frighten a woman to death and scare two men so far from their senses they may never return to them," the vicar said, a visual chill running down his spine at the memory of their fate.

"It's the Devil's work, Mr. Holmes." The companion said, with the conviction of a sinner. "The Devil walks among us now in moors of Tredannick Wollas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So beings _The Devil's Foot_.


	5. Chapter 5

They drove the vicar and his companion, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, back to their abandoned car, the rains from the night before having made the roads unusable save for on foot or specialty vehicle high on the headland. There wasn't much call to hurry outside Sherlock's interest. The police had already made what they could of the scene which at the moment was lacking in answers but still great with superstition. Despite the nagging dread that warned this was the last thing he and Sherlock needed, John found it hard to ignore anyone's need in the light of Sherlock's acceptance. Mortimer, as much as any other man, deserved more than doubts and speculations into the death and damage inflicted on his family in their small hamlet of horrors.

The family had a history of dispute was all either man cared to say for reasons why Mortimer currently took up residency in the vicarage and not at home. John was certainly the last person to make any assumptions regarding two men living alone together. Whatever the dispute was, however, things had been mended well enough that it was not unheard of for Mortimer, his brothers Owen and George, and their sister Brenda to enjoy an evening at their estate of Tredannick Wartha. By Mortimer's account there had been drinks and rounds of Hearts long into the night. The only moment he could place as out-of-sorts was when his brother George mentioned seeing something outside the window which could not be identified as man or beast. It left no impression upon either of them as they soon forgot and continued in their games. When the storm had calmed, the vicar's lodger made his goodbyes and walked back to the vicarage without a care.

Up until then, the story had been rather dull and lacking in any substantial detail that would point to a cause to the effect they'd been whetted with. Sadly, that was as much detail as the bereaved man had to offer. It had been close to four that morning when Mr. Porter, the milkman, had come with his delivery up the walkway to the house. Upon his short walk he happened to hear a repetitive banging against the glass window and turned to see one of Mr. Tregennis' brothers beating his head there upon as he drooled and mumbled dumbly. It was through the window that the milkman could see the sister slumped and blue of tint, her face distorted in a look of pure horror. The brothers both were alive but similarly stricken, their wits lost with terror locked upon their countenance.

The police had been able to account for nothing. Superstition had always had its place among sailors and fishermen alike and the murmurs had been quick to start up with no voice of reason to quell them. Rather like Henry Knight, even Mortimer Tregennis seemed to credit the devil or other unearthly power as the culprit of the deed. And as with the case of the mysterious hound, John was quite assured that there was a rational—though perhaps surprising—cause behind the man's tragedy.

Sherlock, for his part, was quiet on the drive there as they drove behind the vicar's car on the winding paths along the moors. Thinking. Pondering. Lost inside his head in ways John would rather he did not retreat. He cleared his throat, looking out the window towards the distant steeple. "Probably not going to have the police on our side here unless you think Lestrade's influence can carry this far. Most of the details I guess we have, though. If they were alive when Mortimer left at midnight and Brenda was dead by the time Mr. Porter came with the milk, that's, what... four hours? From their descriptions of the body, she'd already started to enter rigor mortis and seeing as that doesn't kick in until four hours after death, we're looking at a murder that took place not long after Mortimer left that night."

Sherlock nodded, eyes keen on the road. "Which begs the answer of several questions: who did George see through the window that night and why had the killer waited until Mortimer was gone to strike the other three but make no attempt on the lone Tregennis?"

"Maybe whatever they used to terrify them wouldn't have worked outdoors with Mortimer?" John attempted. He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. "In all honesty, I would love to see a toxicology report. A good scare can cause a heart attack in the susceptible but you can't die from being frightened by itself, let alone driven mad to the extent their speaking of. Several drugs can cause muscle spasms that might cause facial distortion in death throws, though: speed, cocaine, your regular line-up of uppers. A bad trip could leave the men lost in hallucinations."

"I'm well acquainted with the dangers of drug abuse, thank you. When I need your advice on the subject, I'll ask for it."

John scowled, bracing his elbow against the door as he leant against it. "I'm sorry, I thought you were bringing me along for my medical knowledge seeing as I'm the only doctor in this vehicle. I'm not trying to restart the damn fight, Sherlock."

"I'm bringing you along because I can hardly leave you behind," Sherlock said, his face expressionlessly numb. "Besides, the fight would just be waiting with resurgence if I let you sit there and ruminate on it. If I can keep you otherwise occupied, perhaps you'll forget you're mad at me and we can enjoy the rest of our week with me being fantastic and you being slightly less tolerable than you used to be."

"Only slightly less? How magnanimous of you." John felt the veins in his neck bulging from the strain in his jaw as he sat back in his seat, facing out the front window with no desire to engage further with the infuriating man at the helm. "By all means, let's hurry to the crime scene so you can show off. Death seems to be the only thing you truly understand anyway."

It was cold and it was harsh but John felt vindicated in the silence that followed it. Neither of them could really say much in contradiction but an unspoken, unhappy truth it still was. Sherlock Holmes saw through everything and possessed a massive intellect but he was, at the heart of it all, still a man alone by his own inability to adhere to social niceties. Sherlock surrounded himself in ghosts and walked like a demon among the living. John had once been the exception of those who let Sherlock get to them and rile away on his well-known faults. He wasn't happy with himself. Apparently some skills weren't inherent. Or maybe, sadly, he was simply getting too old to put up with being put down.

Despite not wanting to look at him, Sherlock was still visible in his faint reflection in the windshield. His eyes glanced towards John as his fingers adjusted nervously on the steering wheel. "John."

John shook his head. "You know, maybe talking isn't such a good idea right now. Let's just give the case a good think and see if we can help these people."

Sherlock nodded, his fingers' grip audible in the creek of his gloves. "...Magnanimous?" he asked at length, glancing across once more.

"Read it in a book."

"Ah." He faced forward, the silence returning but not long remembered. "Guess some good can come from them," he said, the marks of amusement decorating his tone.

John hated the smile that seemed to willfully tug at his lips. "Stop it. I'm mad at you."

"You're excited to be on a case with me again."

"Yeah. So try to be less of a prick about it."

Sherlock shrugged, leaning in to adjust the heating vents blowing much appreciated warmth against their arms. "Let's steer clear of empty promises, shall we?" he said.

And in that slightly self-effacing comment, John found his anger slowly fade and his long envied composure return.

 

Tredannick Wartha was a fair bit nicer than the headland shack. Her walls were made of even stone and her roof nicely tiled rather than thatched. The path to the front door was pebbled in smooth, wave-polished stones with an attractive hedge and garden feature along the front of the building. There was something of a storybook quality about the place with its charming, somewhat unassuming beauty, and John felt the fate of the people who had called it home fit in well with that association. It was the police tape across the entrance that caught his eye all the same. While neither he nor Sherlock cared too much about disturbing it, he somewhat doubted the vicar was so in want of answers he would be an accessory to 'crime scene tampering'. John shot Sherlock a warning stare which was seen and accepted without comment. Sherlock had enough to work with it seemed to keep his own criminal activity while on vacation to a minimum.

"Not that much in the way of trees," the consulting detective stated, surveying the rather flat land of the front yard with his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

Mortimer, striding aside the weary vicar, nodded with absent interest. "No, sir, there's not. Why, is that important?"

Sherlock shrugged his face as he spun to face front again.

"No trees and no shrubbery apart from the garden area by the front of the house means there's not many places for an assailant to hide," John clarified, looking up at the house again with different eyes. "You said the police found no signs of a forced entry, yes?"

"None. The doors were locked, all the windows shut, no sign of anything at all."

The detective pointed over at an open window under which grew a large rosebush blushing with small buds. "That window's open," he said.

Mortimer nodded sagely. "That's the window to the room they were found in."

Sherlock's eyes lingered for only a moment before he took them on a tour through the grass towards the window, kneeling down by the mud beneath the eaves. John made sure the other men gave him a wide berth as Sherlock plucked at the rose bush and leant up on his toes to peek inside the open window.

The vicar, wringing his hands, kept his eyes fixated on Sherlock as he worked. "Do you have any ideas?" he asked.

"Several." Sherlock swiped his fingers over the windowsill before turning back to them, his fingers rolling the damp between them. "And I'm sure the police have just as many, as well as the evidence I lack to put forth any real conclusion."

"You mean-"

"For once, I believe the proper authorities have this under control. Hardly a matter for a specialist." He turned to John, his hand on his shoulder guiding him to walk away now though John fought with his own features to not look somewhat bewildered. The detective offered little more to Mortimer as he stood to pass him. "I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Tregennis. I can assure you with absolute certainty that this is not a supernatural act. Should the police fail to ascertain who the culprit is on their own, I would be more than happy to step in and close this case for them but, early days, best to let them try their hand at it first."

Mortimer stood with his mouth slightly agape as Sherlock continued to hasten their retreat, turning to the vicar with a nod. "Let us know if there are any new developments. Otherwise, good day."

"Good day?"

Sherlock was already five steps down the walk with John hastening beside, gone like a breeze on just as short a whim.

John kept his head down as they walked, irritation resting in his balled fists. "You want to tell me what exactly all that was about? I thought we were here to help, not to admire the bushes."

"The police have the bodies and therefore the evidence I lack," he said, his mood sour as they made the short journey to the Land Rover. "The only question left in this case is how Mr. Tregennis succeeded in the murder of his sister but only managed to mentally impair his brothers, the answer to which you've already neatly put a finger on by my estimation."

John froze for a moment, fighting the urge to turn back and look at their former companions as he reached for the handle to his own door. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking over the hood as Sherlock pulled open the driver's side.

The detective said nothing in response, sliding into his seat with bored resignation as John was left to do little else himself.

They drove off, wheels gripping the slick mud as they took to the winding paths once more with the afternoon sun slowly falling. John watched Tredannick Wartha fade away in the mirrors, interested greatly in the shapes of two men who very slowly made their way back to their own car, arms gesturing in conversation with waved fingers in their direction. John swallowed heavily. "Shouldn't we warn the vicar?"

"No need. I don't imagine it will take long for the police to get enough evidence to bring Mortimer in on suspicion. Family disputes, last one to see them alive, the only one to make it out of that house unharmed and with a time of death at his departure? Even quiet places like this can connect those dots in a fairly reasonable amount of time." Sherlock sighed, leaning his head back on the seat as he took them back down the tired roads. "I had hoped, considering his interest in my help, that there was more to it than that. But truthfully, it was the vicar, Mr. Roundhay, who came to call and what grief stricken brother is going to turn down the offer to speak to a renowned private detective after the strange murder of his sister? He came out of obligation to his defense, not in hope."

John nodded along, his eyes drawn again to the passing rocks and memorials to time. "So the vicar will be fine because Mortimer needs him more than anyone else as character witness and partial alibi for the night."

"And needs our involvement the least," Sherlock added, looking at John for just a moment before returning to his task. "Seeing as you did not pack your gun and we're staying in the middle of nowhere, the less we involve ourselves in this matter, the better."

He could hardly fault him there. Neither could John ignore the slight disappointment he felt as they retraced their tracks back to the shack. The case had seemed so promising at first, something they could both sink their teeth into and maybe not only lose themselves within it but somehow find themselves. Each other. He'd hardly had time to find his stride again before it was over and done with. Now they were going back, for what—part deux of an argument that John loathed to have at all despite its necessity? It was a depressing thought. Torn as he had been upon their accepting the case at first, he mourned it now. So much for an entertaining reprieve.

Within a kilometer of their shack, Sherlock took one of the muddy roads down to the rocks and beach rather than up to the headland. John gave him a curious look but said nothing, watching the slightly somber sulk of Sherlock's jaw as he drove them down and onto the sand. The beach was small and hidden between two cliffs, the sands pock-marked by the rains where the waves had yet to smooth them. There was not a footprint to be seen, no tire tracks, no trash, no outward signs of life outside the cab of their own vehicle. Sherlock turned the engine off and got out, his door closing before John had even registered enough to undo his safety belt.

Outside the air was crisp with cold but the winds seemed shielded from on either side, the sun the only other guest permitted on the small beach. John was only all too familiar with the feeling of sand shifting under his feet as he walked up to the solitary figure of his friend who stood near a rock facing out at the waves. He stopped beside him, hands in his pockets, pretending to watch the white waves crash on the rocks as he breathed into a conversation of surveillance. The argument could wait at the shack, Sherlock seemed to say in his choice of locale. And it could wait there all day if it really had to. They could avoid it a little longer until then.

They stood there in the company of the waves and salted air for what felt like hours, neither breaking the hypnotic rhythm of the tide with words. Slowly Sherlock shrugged off his coat, his fingers working on the buttons of his shirt before untucking it from his jeans and letting it fall to the sand the same.

"I'm going for a swim," he said.

The doctor in John nagged about the cold, the fact that they had no towels or blankets and that the noonday sun was hardly enough to contend with the water's early spring chill. Instead he dropped his jacket on the sand as well and toed off his shoes. "Yeah, alright," he replied, and stripped down just the same.

Sherlock raced him and won, diving into the shock of cold water with a surprised cry while John took it easy, wincing at the numbing chill as he very slowly moved from sand to silt against the shove of the waters. "This is insane," he whispered mostly to himself with the chattering of his teeth. Sherlock chuckled darkly, waves breaking against his back as he tread out further with his eyes on John.

"Let's both agree to withhold all judgments and remember that it is very, _very_ cold," John called out, finally flopping down into the deeper waters. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"You'll acclimate."

"You'll get hypothermia."

"You'll make sure I'm okay."

John snorted, swimming out into the waters where the sunlight made them sparkle. Sherlock's curls were swept back, no longer there to soften the sharp angles of his thin face as he floated under the sun. John splashed him by accident as he approached and Sherlock splashed him back in earnest for the sea water now up his nose. John pounced, dragging them both under where the current threatened to bash them both against the rocks. It didn't matter. When they came back up for air it was in between laughs and amidst further attacks. John fought to wrap his arms around Sherlock, demanding his surrender as he drove them both back under again. They were schoolboys. They'd always been schoolboys. With the scrape of rocks against his calves and the burn of breath in his chest, John waited for that final slack in Sherlock's resistance before he let them both breach the frigid surface once again, coughing and sputtering and above all laughing as they continued on in their dangerous games. It wasn't until the winds changed and blew across them that the cold became too much. John half dragged the unhelpful Sherlock out of the water in a new game called ' _Let's Not Die Like Idiots_ ' where it seemed the taller man's main objective was to lose or at the very least make John work for his victory. John couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything he could consider playing but he remembered this feeling very well. The pain in his body, the exhaustion in his bones, the headache brewing in his skull and the great swelling of joy in his heart. This moment was an entire lifetime spent with Sherlock Holmes in its most condensed and concentrated. And it was wonderful.

With smiles that hurt worse than the bleeding scrapes along their bodies, the two men gathered their clothes and made the drive back to the sounds of chattering of teeth and giggles.


	6. Chapter 6

It was the second occasion by which both men had come into the shack dripping wet but this time the sky outside was still bright and the day only half done. They giggled like children as they bolted inside in a race for the shower. John had gotten a fair head start being on the passenger side and not having to stop the car himself. He slammed the bathroom door closed behind with a triumphant cheer as Sherlock was left to slide to a stop outside.

"Loser starts the kettle!" John called out.

"How do you expect to do that from in there?" Sherlock replied.

John started the water with a loud hiss-rush which added volume to his sarcastic laugh. There was no further consultation on the procedures for warming them both up once more. It was the same song they'd danced to before. John was pleased to see the fire burning and a blanket from upstairs waiting for him to snuggle deeply into on his chair. He finished the tea while Sherlock warmed himself under the hot water and set them up again in their chairs with all the comforts of home. The fight was lost or missing, nowhere to be found as they sat like beached manatees in the warm confines of their wound blankets. The fight could stay hidden as far as John was concerned. They would find it again later when needed. Right now he was far less inclined to let Sherlock have a piece of his mind than he was to enjoy what they shared as another jigsaw piece to their puzzle.

He downed large mouthfuls of tea, the liquid scalding in all the ways that hurt but somehow still felt good. He could trace its path from his lips to his gut in the lingering warmth he experienced and sat back in his chair with only a minor headache to protest to his cold excursion. Worth it; in every way worth it. He chuckled at their stupidity in short chorus with Sherlock's own hum. The day was going so much better than it had started. He couldn't help but smile with all the youth and joy left in him. "What on earth possessed you to go swimming in the middle of March?" he asked, shaking his head with affectionate concern.

Sherlock shrugged, his mug clasped between his palms. "Cornwall's not exactly an amusement park. Sounded better than another walk or coming straight back."

John nodded, breathing in deep the smell of their hearth as the tinder cracked and rustled. "Sometimes I think you like to suggest things just to see how far I'll let you go."

"Haven't exactly found your limit yet."

"Well, keep trying. It's bound to be around here somewhere." He joked, smile still pulling deep into his cheeks. He loved the way Sherlock's taut face wrinkled with amusement as well, age hiding in the fine lines they'd made in the boyish adventures of their adult years. One was only as old as they felt, and John felt like his mum might walk in and scold him for following his friend off another bridge as it were. They were bare as babies and with only half the sense, all swaddled in blankets for warmth. "I haven't had this much fun since my stag night," John confessed, letting the tea continue to work its magic from the inside out.

Sherlock half snorted. "You remember your stag night?"

"Bits of it," John said. "I remember the cigars and mass quantities of alcohol. The very nice ladies and their very nice pasties."

"A crowning display of masculinity."

John shook his head, fingers tapping on the ceramic mug. "I remember you being in a foul mood all night."

"Of course I was in a foul mood. I had to stay up with you while you vomited into the toilet on the bathroom floor. Not exactly my definition of fun." Sherlock pulled a face, his expression hardly forgiving of John's excessive behavior.

The doctor frowned, thinking back to the night six months before but drawing a blank. He could recall the trays of shots and the beautiful dancing women. He remembered singing along to barroom songs like every other drunken tit he'd ever rolled his eyes at. There were quite a few points in the night that rang with the utmost clarity but there had been an awful lot of toasts and cheers and liberal libations. "I don't remember that part. Did you really?" he asked at last.

"Mm. Right after I asked you to run away with me."

John paused, wracking his brain to no avail. "Definitely don't remember that part." He took one last swig from his tea mug then set it down on the floor, pulling his trappings in tight along his torso where both arms could tuck in and warm. "What did I say?" he asked, watching with interest the open book of Sherlock's face.

The man scowled slightly. "You threw up on my shoes."

"... actually, I might remember that bit." John said at last with an embarrassed chuckle. Sherlock rolled his eyes but joined in on the laugh all the same. They had always been contagious in their revelry. "Good god, it doesn't feel like it's been six months since then. It feels like years as much as it feels like just yesterday."

Sherlock nodded solemnly, his curls towel-dried but still damp enough to cling to his forehead and cheeks. "A lot can happen in six months."

"Yeah." John felt his chest grow slowly tighter, an echoing constriction of things he generally left alone. "Yeah, I know. And actually, you have no idea."

"I assure you I do."

He shook his head. "No, I mean... I never told you."

"Told me what?"

"About the baby."

Sherlock's demeanor had an instant change from mildly complacent to intensely focused. "Mary's pregnant?" he asked, his shoulders held ridged against the back of his seat.

"Was," John corrected. "She, uh... there was a miscarriage."

Sherlock said nothing, fixing John with the full power of his stare as he seemed to wait—invitation accepted—to hear what all had failed to be relayed.

John took a deep breath, trying to clear the tightness from his body that always seemed to creep in and constrain him. "It wasn't all that long ago," he started. "Late December. We're fine now. But, uh... I don't know. It's.. weird, in a way. Something that big of an event happens and somehow you're not the first to know? Never used to have to make a plan to tell you. You'd just know. The way you do. The way you always do. But not that time. I don't know, I guess I'm sorry in a way that I didn't tell you. I don't know. I just really don't know. The whole thing was just... surreal to begin with. I mean, it's one of the most terrifying things you can hear: ' _We're going to have a baby_ '. I remember thinking... I'm not ready to be a father. Forty-three years old and I'm still not ready. Case and point: my stag night. But at that point, it's done. You're going to be a father whether you like it or not, whether you think you’re ready or not, there's just... it's happening and you're in it for life now. It is truly terrifying. But it really doesn't take too long to start thinking that it's pretty amazing too." John smiled to himself, eyes on the fire as it crackled in its consumption. "You know, at first there's all these worries about money and bills and time and then in the middle of it all you just start laughing because.. Oh my God. Oh my God. And you can read as many text books as you like and know every part of the biology that's in play behind it all and it still blows your mind because oh my God it's real and it's happening and everything that comes next is going to be a million years past normal and even normal is never going to be the same. And then it is. Because you're not. And even though you're left with exactly what you had before, it feels as though you've lost something. And in a way, I guess, it's because we had. Just a couple of cells, just the beginning of a life not developed enough to not just be reabsorbed or drained away. What we lost was the idea of what those cells could have become, what they meant for that short time. And as good as it felt before... does not even come close to how bad it feels after." He tucked his lips behind his teeth, biting down softly to hold back whatever vestigial tears remained. It wasn't something he'd talked about at great length with anyone and certainly not for several months. More than anyone else, John had wanted Sherlock to know. It felt right that he should know. They knew nearly everything else about each other. Something so intimate and painful belonged in that line-up of confessions.

Sherlock's gaze had not faltered even once as he spoke, his face having become an impassive slate. He pulled the corners of his blanket tighter about his shoulders as John paused to keep his emotions in check. Even then he seemed only half present as he held him in his scrutiny. "When were you going to tell me?" he asked flatly.

"I don't know." John let out a long breath, his head hanging as his bangs dripped sea water to his lap. "I just decided... even the mates I had who should have known better, the ones who are married or aren't generally insensitive would say things like ' _there's always next time_ ' or ' _at least it happened early on_ '. I kept thinking about what you might say and I just didn't want to deal with it. I didn't want a reason to be mad at you when I already felt like shit."

"Probably a good idea."

John snorted with an awkward laugh. "Well, I know you pretty well." He felt the last of the tightness pass, his chest feeling less constrained by the painful beating of his heart. He sniffed back cold snot as he sat upright in his chair, licking his lips that still tasted of salt. "Out of curiosity, what would you have said if I had called and told you?"

Sherlock arched one brow with sedate interest. "I'd have asked how it happened."

Of course he would. Ever the scientist. John took one last deep breath, his toes curling along the hem of his blanket. "Rh incompatibility. She's A negative and the baby we made was Rh positive. Mary's own body attacked the fetus like it was a parasite. It's common enough but Mary's body had a particularly strong defense against the baby." He pulled a face as though to sign ' _que sera_ ', finding little else to do to show despite the circumstances, he cast no blame on his wife. It was belittling, perhaps, but better than just the cold facts that Sherlock preferred. "There are medications that can be used to try and stop the body from rejecting it but really at that point it was more or less just information to use the next time. We're a high-risk pregnancy couple. It happens."

"She didn't take it well."

"No. Understandably no. She wanted that baby and the reason we weren't going to have it was... It's not her fault. But there's no easy way to say her body attacked and destroyed the fetus and have it not sound like it is. There's no real sugarcoating it. And she was so... _hurt_... and then of course it was my fault for being a doctor and not realizing that there might be a problem. I mean.. things were bad. They were really, really bad. And as much as I wanted to be able to tell you, I couldn't imagine you making it any better. Worse, yeah, but not better. These things, they're not... Our first case, that very first night... I just kept thinking back to that moment and no matter how much better you've gotten over the years, it was Rachel in my head every time I thought of telling you."

Sherlock nodded, his memory even better than John's and not requiring more than that. "Are you going to try again?" he asked.

"Yeah." John couldn't help but smile, a short laugh escaping with it. "Yeah, we are. Been trying, actually. She's on meds just in case. It's um... we don't have any issues with fertility so it's sort of... It'll be this year." It was all John could do to keep her from picking out baby names already. She was excited. It was contagious. Even thinking about it made him just a bit giddy. Whatever his fears before, he was well over them now. Now he was ready. Now he wanted to be someone's daddy.

"Do you expect you'll call me this time?" Sherlock asked, his gaze finally drifting away towards the fire, the flames turning his pale skin golden in the mix of their flicker and the sunlight though the open windows.

"Yeah. It'll be good news, this time."

"For you."

"Yeah. For Mary and me both." John cocked his head, Sherlock's odd reply nagging at his brain. "You're saying you wouldn't be happy for us? For me?"

Sherlock said nothing and moved not an inch.

John stared at him, disbelieving for only the moment it took for him to remember the unrivaled callousness of his friend. He clenched his jaw, the desire to punch him putting a tremor in his fist. "You're a piece of shit, you know that?"

Sherlock continued to offer up nothing and John ached too deeply at his lack of reply to pursue one.

Why had he ever thought Sherlock would care? Sympathy was hardly Sherlock's strong point but for him, for someone as close to him as John, he'd still somehow expected something of a damn to be given. If not for his pain at least for his happiness. Sherlock could do better; he was capable of better. John had thought he was worthy of more effort from the man who had once been his constant companion. Apparently such an expectation had been a mistake. Sherlock only cared about himself as always. Big shocker, plot twist: Sherlock was an arsehole. John felt his breaths come slow and sharp with the pulse of aggravated blood, his nostrils flaring over his pursed lips as he tried not to say any more least he rail on him again.

For his part, Sherlock didn't look the least concerned or bothered. He continued to look down at the fire, watching the combustion with the same strange passivity he gave to the surveillance of all curious things both animate and inanimate. His blanket had fallen open on his chest, the pale expanse of skin showing where a heart would beat in a normal human being were he to possess one. John was beginning to doubt if Sherlock had feelings at all or if it had just been one long ruse the detective had grown tired of keeping up. Sherlock seemed just like any other automaton left in idle with only his mind engaged in the world.

"I started ‘round about the time you got engaged," Sherlock said into the long stretch of quiet with a voice deep enough to rumble in tune to the crackle of tinder. "And it's exactly what that sounds like, I won't lie even though I'm sure it would be considered the charitable thing to do. I didn't want it to be true. My first hit was that night and I kept a supply for the occasional top up when you were out with her. I was high on your wedding day—not that you paid me much attention. That's normal, I'm told. It was your day. Only it's been 'your day' ever since. When there are cases, I'm fine. I'm busy and it's fantastic and I don't even care that you're not there. I used to care but that part was relatively easy to get over. You'd already sort of weaned yourself out of my work when we still lived together so that much went on without a worry. But your name is still the first thing I call when I get home. After all this time I still shout 'John' while I'm stripping off my scarf and coat. Depending on how excited I am, I don't remember right away. One night it took me actually running up the stairs and throwing open your bedroom door to remember you don't live there anymore." His chin dropped though his eyes stayed steady, burning with the flames till John swore the grey turned to ash. "There's never any food in," he said. "I have to go and get my own things because yours aren't there for me to confiscate. I can lay about the flat all day and no one tuts. As a consulting detective I'm at the top of my game. But I think I stopped existing as a human being. I don't remember how to be on my own. I know I must exist because I'm there when Lestrade calls me but I spend so much of that time self-medicating the absence of you that I can't really be sure. And I honestly like it better that way. And if you ask what I'm going to do when my holiday here is over, I'd have to say I'm going to my dealer. I can't change what I don't like about my life. It's more than just being lonely. You were more than just someone to pay the other share of the rent. I can't replace you the way you replaced me. But I can stop it from mattering for a few hours at a time."

John couldn't be sure if his anger was greater or somehow quelled in the unadulterated confession. He expected to have to do or say much more to get him to speak and the words which he expected to come in anger rolled out into the air like case notes instead—cold, calm and detached. Genuine. Genuine to a fault with no consideration behind them in the least. John breathed deep, his lips pursed as he swallowed the taste of bile with his heart. "That's the way you look at it? I replaced you?"

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes swiveled to pin John to his chair, harsh but still vulnerable in the sheer amount of emotion that betrayed him through them. "I shared everything with you. My life, my home, my work, everything that has ever mattered to me and made me who I am. And we were happy for years. Had I been born a woman, you'd have married me. After everything, if I were female, we would never have cause to be here now. As it happens, I'm not. And that lack of adequate genitalia means you can leave me behind even when everything between us is perfect. I never had a chance. I was never who you pictured yourself spending your life with; I was always just your meantime fancy. And I'm not misinterpreting our relationship; I know what we were to each other. After all those years I thought maybe you weren't just settling for my company, though. I somehow convinced myself our friendship meant more to you than the pointless dates and sex you weren't having in the interim. The fact that you can show up one day and proudly exclaim you're leaving to spend your life with someone else, that you can see this as something to be celebrated and in fact invite me to share in the festivities is a cruel turn. You say I don't understand what it feels like to worry about someone else, well I put it to you that you do not understand what it is like to lose your entire life on the basis of one's gender." Sherlock paused only long enough to breathe, closing his eyes as he did so to look away once more. "There were always a million ways I could have lost you, a million mistakes I could have made to make you hate me and leave for your own safety and peace of mind. Somehow I never thought the one thing that would cause me to lose you would be the one thing that was always completely outside of my control."

John licked his lips, his chest tight once more. "Do you hate her?"

"Yes. I'm sure she's nice enough; she has always been nothing but kind to me and in my presence. But I hate her existence. I hate that there exists in this world something better to you than I am. It's nothing personal."

"Nothing personal? She's my _wife_."

"And how lucky she is to have a title that outweighs my own." Sherlock's voice regained its sharpness, his tone no longer a rumble but a smack. "You call the people you see once a month the same thing you called me: friend. I deluded myself into thinking that what we were was simply beyond conventional language and so the term made do but here we are with me set firmly in my place within the hierarchy of John Watson's time and affection. Sherlock Holmes is just a friend, one of many, and God Save the Queen who has bested us all."

John could not remain seated. His feet were under him in an instant, his weight shifting forward till he was sure he was going to punch him this time. And Sherlock sat looking up at him, thin, pale, and with the eyes of someone not merely broken but shattered.

Here lied the remnants of all that had been—a sacrifice to all that had yet to be.

John took six steps past him and punched the wall instead, his knuckles cracking against the plaster as an inhuman sound burst through his throat on impact.

"For what it's worth, John," Sherlock said, still in his seat, still facing the empty chair. "I am sorry about the baby. You would have... you _will_ make a wonderful father."

John put his bruised knuckles to his lips, biting at the split skin to sever the broken flaps. "Thanks," he said quietly, as he finally left the room and retreated to his bedroom upstairs to dress and find reprieve.


	7. Chapter 7

When John came back down in jeans and a jumper, Sherlock was no longer in the den by the fire. He checked that his wet clothes were still hung in the bathroom and the Land Rover still parked outside. Sherlock surely couldn't have gone far in not but a towel and a blanket but worrying about him was as second nature as two coffees, both black, one with sugar. It was a small relief to see him sitting out close to the cliff's edge through the wide kitchen windows, still wrapped and bundled against the wind that had dried his hair so it blew in frizzy clumps of tangled curls. He nearly blended in with the black rocks and the paleness of the sky. He really shouldn't have sat so close to the edge. He really should come in and get dressed before catching a cold or worse. John licked his lips, pushing the warning words away, and found plenty to do in the kitchen instead where their late lunch still begged to be prepared.

Peas. Peas would be good, and some sausages. Something warm and hearty—where was the bread? He didn't bother not banging the heavy pots and pans together as he searched for the ones that would do. He was starving and really so should Sherlock have been after thrashing about in the sea as they had. So peas and sausage and bread and perhaps some potato, maybe bacon, maybe a salad and _fuck_. John gripped the counter tight, his body rigid and tense as he bent his chin to his chest. Fuck.

He hadn't thought. Sherlock never said. And the one person whose love meant more to him than any other's... was hated by the man whose opinion he respected above all. Of all the things John had learned to accept about his dramatic companion, his jealousy had never been among them. For all the want to pick apart his argument and dissect from within it everything wrong, his heart was miles from the desire to plainly say he'd long since retired the fantasy that he or anyone else could tame him. Gender notwithstanding, Sherlock did not come to heel and no health code sanction or fine could make him abandon his scientific methods for stability, for a future, or for love. Sherlock knew only one way to be and only one way to care. Man or woman, Sherlock's work came first. With Mary, John came first. No man worth his weight in salt could place unconditional favor below the manic whims of a madman. But perhaps, to some small extent, it was still somewhat true that had he been more romantically inclined, that over the last seven years John would have tried harder to break him of his habits and trap him under a golden band.

John took several deep breaths, eyes closed but slowly opening as his white-knuckled grip on the counter turned rosy with slack. He cursed every moment he'd ever thought to himself how much like a real relationship living with Sherlock had been and the stupidity of his own mind to have believed he was the only one to have thought so. It had been real in all but ceremony. Much as he wanted to tell Sherlock it was different, that he'd misunderstood, that he'd gotten it wrong, how better could John describe it? What they had had was as close to a happily married life as he could point to as an example. Replace foot chases, handcuffs and bomb threats with nights in and tongued kisses—handcuffs optional—and what difference was there? There were still two cups of coffee, both black, one with sugar waiting on a table with the morning paper shared over hot plates of beans, eggs, and toast. What kind of idiot divorced his husband in the context of his next marriage?

The same idiot who was stuck on how to fix it. For now at least he could get the burners going to warm them both some food. Peas and sausage and bread and potatoes. He set the cast-iron griddle on the hob and sought about for something to open up the plastic wrapping on their beef and pork mixed links.

John tidied up as water boiled and meat sizzled, finding the general tracking of their things in the usual places. Sherlock had moved his laptop again, this time to the kitchen table which was habitually scattered with his findings. John pushed them aside for plates, not at all surprised to find knife-marks in the wooden surface he could not recall having been there before. As he dropped their cutlery more or less in their places, he looked outside the window at his solitary friend to see him quite less so. There was another man standing out there with him, tall and big of build. He had the look of a giant to him in the way he stood, legs firmly planted with his arms just so. A fisherman, John surmised, though even for a man with a boat, their shack was certainly out of the way. He let the sausages sit a bit longer on the one side as he kept his vigil out the window instead, watching the towering man in his long, thick coat and woolen cap and the still seated Sherlock who inclined his head in his regard but remained as sat and bundled as he'd been before. There were no outward signs of distress—not on Sherlock's part—but the man's fists clenched and unclenched uneasily and even for a man used to keeping his balance on the sea, his stance was far too rigid with all his weight baring down hard into the earth as though he wore cement shoes. Sherlock turned around far enough that he could see John in the window and, following his gaze, the man too looked in. John rolled his shoulders back—instinct, little pinpricks of habit that made him adjust his posture to seem taller and more imposing. He was fairly certain he could take him if he needed to. He'd be a right sight himself afterwards but big men fell hard. Intimidated or not, the sailor seemed to think better of taking up much more of Sherlock's time and he stormed away back down the headland to the moors with little in the way of farewell. Sherlock watched him go for a minute then looked back inside at John before rising up in his large, mummified mess and shuffling back towards the shack.

John returned to the browning sausages, checking right after that the boiling peas and potatoes hadn't gone right past soft to mushy. He heard Sherlock come in and the door close behind him as his footsteps took up the stairs rather than across to the kitchen. John served up plates with butter and brown sauce then tucked into his without waiting.

He hadn't gotten but a bite between his teeth before Sherlock came back down in a thunder of footsteps wearing a jumper that didn't belong to him but of which John was tired of complaining. One of Sherlock's many confiscated articles over the course of seven years. Shopping for Sherlock was in many ways just opening another man's wardrobe. He took his seat opposite and started in on his food without comment, seasoning with salt and pepper before ever taking a bite.

"Good to see you've got an appetite," was all John could really muster without further quips on the rarity. "So who was that, then?"

Sherlock shrugged, drinking down a sip of water with a swallow of veg. "Leon Sterndale. He works aboard a fishing freighter docked in Plymouth."

John frowned as he dropped a slice of buttered bread on Sherlock's plate. "Bit of a way to Plymouth. What was he here for?"

"Seems the Vicar Roundhay called and told him about the Tregennis family. He caught the first train he could find out to see for himself. The police weren't terribly helpful in regards to his inquiries and the vicar thought it prudent to mention I too had been investigating the case." Sherlock tore a corner of the bread off and popped it in his mouth. "Friend of the family according to him."

"A train from Plymouth to here with time for a check-in at the police station and a walk out to us all before two?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up with a spark in his eyes and that look—the we both know what's really going on here look—which for once was precisely right. "How many family friends get a call from the vicar before dawn?"

"Very, very, close friends."

"Which looks to be the missing piece to our lost motive." Sherlock cut his sausage into bite-sized pieces, mopping up the lost juices with bread as he indulged in his hunger. "The family dispute was quite obviously inheritance. Old home like that with three siblings living together but not too with their parents? Both dead then with the house left for them to share and the money certainly going further with them sticking to their inherited land. Mortimer not staying with them but not leaving the town suggests that he doesn't trust them with the money he feels he should receive. Still, it wasn't enough for him to kill before. Maybe whatever murder weapon he's gotten his hands on now has him feeling rather assured he'll get away with it but still there must have been something to finally push him to it. You saw the house but perhaps you didn't look inside the window as I did. Old furnishings. Heirloom china. These people weren't spending their fortune on plasma television screens and other modern luxuries. I'm far more inclined to say it was Mortimer that wanted the finer things in life and was denied them by sensible siblings. So what could they possible spend a large amount of money on that would dip heavily into his potential pockets and also cause a link between the Tregennis siblings, Vicar Roundhay, and Mr. Sterndale?"

"A wedding," John said with a fair share of knowledge on the wince-worthy costs.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. And no matter the time, day or night, the vicar would surely call a fiancée with the bad news rather than let him hear it from the police or news sources."

"So you think this Leon Sterndale was set to marry Brenda Tregennis."

"I do." Sherlock's smile was positively indecent.

John mopped up the last of his food with a second slice of buttered bread. "That still doesn't explain how Mortimer managed to kill his sister and drive his brothers insane," he reminded him, trying to put some perspective into his friend's devilish delight.

Sherlock gave a small roll of his eyes. "There is more than one mystery in every case, John. It can be just as important to discover why someone has done something as it is to learn the how."

"You really feel that motive is worth the same as the means to conviction?" John asked, feeling along the broken skin of his left fist out of sight under the thick wooden table.

The detective stood up, his mouth still full with one last bite as he stepped away from the table and back towards the stairwell. "Only when there's a crime," he said and, leaving his plate and all for John to tidy away, he retreated back to his room.

 

The murder of Mortimer Tregennis transpired early the next morning. Sherlock found it a spot of luck that the vicar had called the landline to The Look Out House first before calling the authorities. He was down and into the Land Rover with his heels not yet smashed into his shoes before John could talk the vicar off the phone and return it to the cradle. Sherlock idled outside the door for him, his impatience in the honk of the horn as John tumbled out the door himself with more of his clothes draped over his arm than worn. They were more than halfway back to town, tearing down the roads like a thing possessed, before John could even spare a thought to what or why as he pulled a jumper on over his missbuttoned shirt. If he thought about it, he didn't really want to be there in the car again with Sherlock indecently happy about the death of a man they'd spoken with just the day before. He supposed it was better than the alternative. A case meant further distraction from the things he no longer cared to delve into—not yet, anyway. And a part of him would never forgive himself if he missed out on one last case, one last chance to find the good still left to them.

After an abysmal day spent mostly avoiding each other through the evening, John was half impressed Sherlock had remembered to wait for him at all. He certainly hadn't remembered how to drive. "If you hit somebody, I swear to God—"

"The only thing I'm likely to hit at this hour is a dog. Left." He turned the steering wheel hard left and John braced for it, hand on the roof as Sherlock banked around the turn and into another straight.

"Dogs count. We don't run dogs over."

"Dogs should be kept on their leads. Left again."

"You should be kept on a bloody lead!" John braced again, his foot finally popping past the tongue into his shoe as he counterbalanced with his weight. "Sherlock, we can't investigate if we're both dead!"

"Then I should advise you not to die," he said with all the calm and rationale of the cloth.

John was pleased to see him return to something much more agreeable in town, signaling and stopping when advised and no longer casting very heavy doubt on his better driving aptitude in comparison to John himself. They still made it to the vicarage in a frankly staggering amount of time. John pulled his shoelaces tight while Sherlock very nearly forgot to put the Land Rover in park as he bolted out the door to the still fresh crime scene. A child at Christmas. John collected the keys from the ignition and pocketed them as he followed more slowly behind.

Inside the vicar was inconsolable. John had him take a seat in the other room while Sherlock danced around the terror stricken corpse sitting beside the fire. John could only make out so much from the open doorway but he could read Sherlock's movements to the last bow. Something had certainly caught his eye. At least the harrowing trip had not been a waste.

"It's the work of Lucifer himself!" The vicar cried, his hands shaking on the cold glass of water John handed him. "It's the same as Mr. Porter described it!"

John sat forward in the seat opposite him, casting intermittent glances towards Sherlock while trying to calm his patient over. "I know it seems supernatural at first but trust me, this is the act of a man, not a spirit. We deal with this sort of thing all the time. So just go ahead and give me a couple good, deep breaths, okay?" He breathed with him in example, in and out. "Okay. Now have a drink and just keep on breathing until you feel like you can speak."

The vicar nodded, his nerves still rumbling through his body as he obeyed the doctor implicitly. "I was... I came down. I opened the door. He was.. s-s-sitting there... like that. I swear to you I saw... Jesus, save us, I saw the devil standing there beside him as clear as I see you in front of me." The penitent man bowed his head, sweat beading on his brow. "I threw open the window to scream for help but my voice, God, in my terror I could not make a sound. And as I turned back to see... he'd vanished... Gone. No sound and no trace. I.. I'm not mad, Dr. Watson. I swear to you I am a sober man and I know what I saw when I opened that door."

John nodded, never one to call a man crazy to his face. "The mind can play funny tricks on us," he said, catching a glimpse of Sherlock leaning down by the fire, his back obscuring his actions though he could be seen pocketing an envelope as he stood. "Just keep breathing like I showed you and you'll start to feel better."

"I thought you... the police, they'll have someone come get me like they did George and Owen. But I'm not.. You have to believe me, Dr. Watson. I'm not crazy."

"I know you're not. Deep breaths, remember? In and out," John repeated, and he sat and breathed with him for several more breaths till he could see the vicar's body relax, his head hanging loose as the stress broke into tears. "What you are is very, very wound up. And the more you relax, the easier it's going to be. You don't have to be afraid. Just breathe and relax and try to remain calm."

The vicar nodded into his hands as he cradled his face. John stood and brought him back a box of tissues just in time to watch Sherlock jump out the ground floor window. The sounds of sirens rang down the drive. John watched Sherlock pause in his inspection of the windowsill and look back in towards him, a slight nod given as he climbed back inside.

"Thank you, Mr. Roundhay, we'll show ourselves out," Sherlock called as he strode past the crying man, stopping only for a moment to tap his shoulder to beg his attention. "If I were you, I would suggest to the police that they inspect the fireplace. There's some rust-colored grounds there that might interest them."

The vicar looked up but Sherlock was already halfway gone, John left to shrug off his rude exit and expedite his own. "I'd do as he says and, uh... leave out the part about seeing the Devil for now," he advised, taking steps back towards the door as he spoke. "Sherlock and I will cover that bit, alright?"

He nodded his tear streaked and fear stricken face as John hurried out the open door, tipping his chin to the police as they passed on the walk and avoiding questions with Sherlock's impatient honk of the horn as John hurried to the Land Rover with the keys.


	8. Chapter 8

They grabbed breakfast in town at a small cafe where the gossip was plentiful and the eggs a bit runny. Noisy. Public. Distracting. The case was over as far as John could see it and the voices all around them seemed to preach further to the choir. 'Poor Leon' a pair of older women moaned among talk of the funeral arrangements rather than a wedding's. One of the women apparently was the town's primary source of decorative flora while the other played the piano in the church. Their waitress was a talker as well, a woman who 'never liked that Mortimer' and would bet her tips on him having something to do with what happened to poor Brenda. He 'got what he deserved' as far as a retired fisherman thought, having known the Tregennis family since their parents were alive and the four siblings young enough to be chased out of his front yard for eating the berries off his bushes. God's divine punishment or the devil's handiwork; the people of Tredannick Wollas didn't seem to care between the two or even see much difference in them. There was tragedy and there was justice and beyond the knocking of wood and the kissing of crosses there was little more care to be had in the horrors beyond the gossip.

"So that's it then, is it?" John asked, his coffee cup poised near his chin as he watched Sherlock stir his own. "Murder for money then suicide out of guilt?"

Sherlock ignored the question nearly as well as he ignored John in his entirety, stirring and stirring the coffee in his cup till purpose turned to idle.

He walked back to the shack. It was miles but Sherlock didn't seem daunted in the slightest, his desire to wander leaving John with little choice but to drive the Land Rover back himself. They couldn't leave it in town at any rate. The necessity of it made John almost sure the only reason Sherlock wanted the walk was to have a few hours time to himself. Well, he could have it. John had other things he could be doing other than spending time with his friend. It rather defeated the purpose of the trip with but storm clouds still brewing over their heads, nearly anything was preferable. His mother had always cautioned him that things had to hurt if they were to heal, patient words from a tender mother as the peroxide had bubbled away on another scrapped knee. It was hard to know whether he and Sherlock were simply picking at scabs, though.

Back at the shack, John found it very difficult to ignore the impulse to sit down at his laptop and type out their problems. There weren't many, really. They still had fun together, they still enjoyed each other's company, they still liked the same things they used to like and connected on them as they always had. Forgetting everything that was wrong, nothing had changed in their interactions. They, as a team, were okay. Each of them as part of something bigger than just themselves was... complicated. John wanted Sherlock to take better care of himself and Sherlock... Sherlock wanted a time machine. Or better advancements in human cloning. Or for Mycroft to make kidnapping legal in at least one circumstance. They were exaggerations, yes, but what Sherlock seemed to want was just as impossible. John wasn't going to leave Mary just to make Sherlock happy. Surely Sherlock knew that. If he didn't, John was almost sure the man would have made a monumental fuss, demanding what he wanted rather than allowing himself to fall to relative obscurity within John's new life. If Sherlock had any reason to believe he could usurp Mary, he'd be trying. Whatever the cause, Sherlock wasn't standing on their doorstep, coked out with a needle in his vein shouting 'Look what you made me do!' to demand his attention and concern. Sherlock was living his life as he was wont to do, keeping himself clear of drama, and despite his own professed lack of charity, giving John some peace in ignorance. If John wanted him to accept he was married now, by all accounts Sherlock had. But what John wanted most was for Sherlock to be happy about it and no man, no matter how greatly he wishes for it, could ever dictate how another person felt.

Well, that was one thing off the list, he supposed. It certainly didn't mean it was okay that Sherlock felt the need to turn to illegal substances—that was a topic all its own—but as far as John's marriage was concerned, there was nothing more to talk about. That included the baby and everything else that entailed, really. He could not expect Sherlock to feel one way or another for him even if the general expectancy for friendship said it should be one of empathy. So what else was there? Sherlock was alone now? That was just as much out of John's hands as the rest of it. Sherlock was alone because Sherlock was Sherlock and no amount of correction was ever going to be enough to enamor most people to him. He could be admired for his work and honored for his brilliance but as a man he had a long track record of disappointment and pain. Empathy yet again. Sherlock was rude and unfeeling but not generally unkind by intention. Lacking modesty as it was, it took a special kind of person to tolerate Sherlock and an even more outstanding one to love him. Neither John nor Sherlock had much power in the way of giving the consulting detective what he now lacked in John's absence. So that made two things they could do nothing about. It was an unflattering trend.

John picked up a book to pull himself out of depressing contemplation, setting the fire to burn again as he sat and waited for Sherlock to finish his long return. They could talk about the weather, he supposed. Plan a trip out onto the sea in a hired boat. Fishing. Boring things that neither of them really fancied but were better than the silence of a million things they could but shouldn't bother with. He'd nearly fallen asleep by the time Sherlock fumbled his way in, wiping his feet off at the door as he hung up his coat.

John checked the clock, wincing at how much daylight he'd spent in repose. "Three hours. I told you it was a long walk."

"Three hours enjoyed all the same." Sherlock pulled a small, white envelope from the coat pocket before taking his seat at the fire. His nose and cheeks were rosy with windburn. "Mortimer Tregennis wasn't suicide; it was murder."

John sat up in his chair, face pinching with confusion. "Hang on, then does that mean—"

"No, I'm quite sure it was still Mortimer who killed his siblings," Sherlock interrupted, knowing his question before he'd ever had a chance to formulate it.

"So we now have two killers who both had access to the same strange murder weapon?" John put his book down on the table beside his chair, not sure whether he should be surprised or not that Sherlock's walk had been focused on the case and not their own problems. "You think that sounds more likely, do you? You saw Mortimer yesterday. That was the face of a man in mourning, not of a man who was glad to have killed. It makes much more sense to me that he couldn't live with the guilt in the end and took his life the same way he took his sister's."

"It makes sense only if you didn't break into Leon Sterndale's home to find a cabinet of souvenir bottles from several European and African ports along with one dust ring where a bottle was obviously missing and recently at that." Sherlock held up the envelope to John's stirring indignation. "Breaking and entering is a solitary sport. The Land Rover leads right back to us as well. You'd have only wanted to come had I told you."

John crossed his arms over his chest, lips pursed as he tried to calm his annoyance at his friend. "So you broke into Leon's house and found evidence of a missing bottle. And that's related to whatever it was you collected from the fireplace, is it?"

"In all likelihood." He passed the envelope over for John to inspect. The clay-colored powder inside smelled of ash and nothing more, itself a powdery substance clumping in the fold of the paper. "Among the other bottles were things marked as 'zombie dust' and some sort of voodoo pulverulence. Without the bottle or my instruments I can't be sure at this moment but I still believe it to be our murder weapon given all the other facts between the two cases. Similar in both was the time of day, a fire burning, and the doors and windows being shut. In the first murder, Mortimer said he and George were sitting opposite the window so it had to be either Owen or Brenda who was sat nearest the fire. The police markings in the room suggest it was Brenda. Now in the second murder we have Mortimer also sitting near the fire when he dies in the same fashion. If we consider that proximity as the defining difference between death and insanity then the vehicle for administering whatever toxin it was would have to be the fire as well. It would only be too easy for Mortimer to toss something into the flames without raising anyone's suspicion before he left his siblings that night. Without their knowledge it burns and releases something into the air, the toxin trapped in the room with all the doors and windows shut. And in the end there are only two people who know what that murder weapon is: the thief and the man he stole it from who much to Mortimer's misfortune was informed of Brenda's death before heading back out to sea."

John handed the envelope back, his eyes slightly wider for the stretch of Sherlock's tale. "Leon certainly looked ready for a fight when he was here yesterday. Police didn't have answers yet, we only had suspicion, he's got a boat to catch and a dead fiancé so the poor sod goes off to take matters into his own hands."

"Exactly."

"Have you told the police your suspicions?"

"No. Why should I?" Sherlock reclined back in his seat, tapping the paper to his chin. "There's no trace of the bottle in Leon's home and very little evidence left of his intrusion at the vicarage. The bits of dirt on the windowsill will likely be overlooked and the vicar certainly won't be able to offer them much help either."

John wasn't quite sure he was following anymore. Sherlock's flippant tone, his easy acceptance, his disinterest in apprehending the criminal were all something of a surprise. "So that's it, then?" he asked, still waiting for the call to arms that seemed to have slipped Sherlock's mind. "You're sure Leon killed Mortimer Tregennis out of revenge and you're going to let him just sail away?"

The detective gave a lazy nod. "The person he loves is dead. There's not exactly any joy in his freedom. Why strip even that away?"

"You.. feel sorry for him." John laughed darkly, shaking his head from side to side as his chest slowly started to cave in around his heart in a protective squeeze. "That's.. funny, actually. Very funny. I was just thinking a bit ago how largely impossible it is to expect you to have an empathetic response to... anything. Certainly not when it comes to your best friend. But for this guy? This.. absolute stranger? Well, that just brings the big softy right out of ya." He felt amazingly calm for all the pain shooting through his body. Calm was perhaps the 10 on a scale from dispassionate to furious. Shouting meant he wasn't really thinking too much about it. Calm meant he'd thought about it far too much.

Sherlock sat up slightly in his chair, his thick brows furrowed. "There is no correlation between my attempts to remain indifferent towards your situation and demonstrating compassion to a suspect."

"Situation?! Compassion! Sherlock, you are a riot." John didn't want to laugh but it was hard not to. It was laugh or cry and crying was never an option. It ripped through his throat like barbed-wire, each chuckle another razor knot slicing past his tongue. "I am your best friend and you can't so much as pretend to care about my life but you can pardon a murder on your own terms because you feel sorry for him. Do I need to murder someone? Is that how this works? Do I need to commit some sort of crime in order for you to look at me in a way that makes you remember I'm human and invoke some kind of feeling? You give a stranger preferential treatment to me!"

"Believe me John, it is hardly a stretch to sympathize with a man who has lost everything but his work."

John had his coat in his hands and was out the door before much more than few tense seconds locked in an uncomfortable staring contest. He needed air. He needed space. He needed Mary. He needed someone to tell him things were going to be alright, that things could be fixed, that he wasn't being irrational and that it was okay to feel hurt by it all. He needed a cigarette and he didn't even smoke. His hands were shaking, his pulse pounding as though he'd run from the doorway and down the drive rather than just taken several fought-and-won steps out as far from the front door as his limbs could bear him. There wasn't enough air in the world to breathe and even to his own ears he sounded like a raging bull standing furiously behind the gates. All this just so as not to cry.

He breathed in deep, feeling it quiver through his nostrils on the exhale as he fought for that control that limited his expressions. Boys don't cry. Neither do soldiers or men trying to be strong for their wives. Crying meant breaking down, losing hope, giving in to despair without the resolve to simply push through it. John Watson did not cry when there was still a battle to be won. But he seemed to do an awful lot of running away.

Not this time. No matter what, it had to end. No distractions, no escapes, no retreating until it stopped hurting. They had to sit down, fight it out however they needed to, and if he cried so be it. There were few things in his life worth the shedding of a few tears over and Sherlock was high among them. He let his head fall, breathing till the tremors stopped shooting down his arm, letting the cool air calm his hot head as it cleared away his own selfishness which was busy piling itself up again. Not one more try but _the_ try. The success. Or the failure. With one last thought-clearing breath John turned back to the shack and walked inside.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

John's head swam with the sudden painful slam against his senses. Everything seemed bright—too bright—with his steps hard to take against the shifting sands. Why was the desert in their den? John's mouth felt dry and he could hear the sires screaming. Bombs, dear God, bombs. He hit the deck, covering his head, listening as he could hear the sirens growing louder, people screaming in the distance as metal collided against metal in catastrophic explosions. Where was Sherlock in all this mess?

He looked up for just a moment, peaking through his arms past the blowing sands at the pavement outside Barts. Head wounds bled terribly, filling in the cracks of stone, pouring down the gutters. He was screaming. Sherlock was screaming. John army crawled across the desert towards the thrashing figure on the street, swimming through the blood as he tried to grab him and drag him down where the bombs wouldn't destroy him. Sherlock fought him but John had always been stronger. He grabbed him around the neck with one arm, dragging him back towards the base. If he could get them inside the base, they might make it. He could see the door, see their salvation. Sherlock bit down into his arm, his fingers clawing at him to break free, but John only held on tighter. The door was right there. Inside, safe, help, free. He reached up for the doorknob and turned it, pulling against it with his weight and his friend's as it threw itself open to them.

But it wasn't the base. It was pebbles and grass and sunlight. John coughed as he dragged them further into the yard, finding the desert sirens growing fainter while Sherlock's screams echoed all the more loudly in his ears. They collapsed in the grass. John let go of his choke-hold and wrapped his arms around him tight from behind, holding Sherlock's arms down at his sides while the detective thrashed and coughed in his fit. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's back, breathing away his old nightmares while he clung to a new one.

It didn't feel as though it would ever stop. John held on to Sherlock with all his strength, his muscles shaking at the strain even as the man calmed himself and stilled. His screaming died to coughs and panting but John still would not let go. His heart was beating so fast he could feel each ventricle moving. He could deal with the bombs, the sirens, the screaming, and the blood but feeling Sherlock fighting for life beside him was a horror unlike anything he'd ever witnessed before. He breathed in deep, smelling the sea and their soap, a prayer still heavy on his lips as he begged for it all to pass.

Sherlock rolled his head to the grass, breathless but alive. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I had no idea it would be that potent—it was just a small amount."

John swallowed, his face still pressed to the other man's back. "What are you talking about?"

"The drug. The weapon. I didn't know."

John felt sick, his arms growing slack in their hold at last. "You threw the sample into the fire?"

"I don't have my equipment, I needed to test—"

"You idiot!" John screamed even though his ear was just right there. He could feel the jolt of his surprise down the length of his torso where it spooned against his own. He beat against Sherlock's chest with his fist. "You could have killed yourself! You'd be dead right now if I hadn't come back in!" He pushed Sherlock away, beating against his shoulder as he shoved greater distance between them. He was shaking in earnest now, the knowledge of just how easily that could have been one or both their deaths sapping the strength from his body.

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock sat up, wiping drool from his chin and leaving dirt from his hands. "I didn't think—it was a small amount!"

"You don't think! You never think!"

"I needed to know!"

"No, you didn't!" John could hear his own voice echoing off the cliffs but his pounding heart still felt louder. "There is a difference between need and want! No one ever needs to put himself in harm’s way for the sake of curiosity!" He felt dizzy, his lungs still protesting to not enough clean air but it couldn't wait, it was the last thing that could ever wait. "I can't do this! God, Sherlock, I can't! You are going to get yourself killed and I can't just sit back and watch it happen!"

Sherlock's own near-death experience had done little to tame his own fires. He attempted to stand on his shaking legs only to sink once more to his knees. "And you think it's easy, do you, for me to watch you with your wife, your friends, your job, your whole new life? You think just because you're happy and safe and healthy that I should be happy for you? I dream of the day she leaves you! I couldn't care less about your perfect little future with a mortgage, two kids and a dog! Every day you're happy it's because I'm not there! Every blessing you welcome into your life exists only in my absence! I am not a good enough person to believe that my feelings for you should favor your own happiness above my own!"

"Grow up! Will you just grow up!"

"What for? So I can be like all the other friends you have? I'm not like them! I'm better than them! I am better than her!"

"I. LOVE. HER."

"So what are we doing out here!?"

John let out a long, shaky, heave of a breath, his body demanding the pause with threat of unconsciousness if he did not obey. His cheeks felt wet, his legs were complaining from sitting on them but he could not move nor tear his eyes for one second off of Sherlock's face. If ever John felt for one moment that Sherlock did not know or understand the depths of pain in love then he had only to remember his face as they crouched on the headland, clawing as they were at the grass for something tangible to hold on to.

Sherlock sniffed back on his running nose, rolling the back of his hand across his upper lip. "What we had in common, John, what made us friends? It's always been me but it was always more than that. You though I was brilliant. And you didn't mind at what cost. What made you special was your love for me. And that's changed. So we have to change. We're not friends anymore, John; not like we used to be. I am the ruin of everything you want now. That's just the way it is." He pursed his lips, swallowing with some difficulty as he continued to meet John's eyes. "Thank you for this, John. It's a much better goodbye than what we had before but that's all it is. I don't want to hear about your wonderful, perfect life and you can't take the stress of hearing about mine. But you should know that there is nothing, not even this, that you can do to make me not care about you let alone hate you."

John shook his head, his shoulders caving around his ears as he curled in on himself, pulling the grass from the earth. "You and your stupid goodbyes. So, what, we just avoid each other? Pretend we don't know each other? Just.. off the radar, never to be seen from or heard of again? I can't do that."

"Nor can I." Sherlock somehow found the strength to stand, his legs still shuddering under his weight as his balance slowly returned. "You can text me," he said. "You can call if you want. We can play Words With Friends or whatever other time-wasting games they come out with on our phones. Just... you don't talk about your life and I don't talk about mine. Things can go back to the way they had been before now: blissful ignorance."

John shook his head, a tear dripping off his nose to his ground. No Eden was ever saved by a blind eye. Even feigning ignorance, it didn't change the fact that they were naked. He took a deep breath, raising his face to see an outstretched hand offering help up off the ground. "So what do we talk about then?" he asked, slipping his palm against his palm.

Sherlock closed his fingers around his hand and stood sturdy as he rose. "The past."


	9. Chapter 9

It didn't take long to air out the shack. To be safe, Sherlock took the logs from the hearth and tossed them out over the cliff's edge while John swept up the ashes till the fireplace was clean. Lunch was a split can of beans with toast, the least amount of effort required in preparation. They didn't even bother with cheese.

For his part, John was exhausted. His muscles ached from stress and his head was pounding with the worst headache he'd had in weeks. His eyes felt as though were boiling in their sockets and roughly squeezed. The only thing that didn't seem to hurt anymore was the muscle that had been the most roughly taxed of them all. Sitting opposite Sherlock, the pair of them chewing their toast like bored cows, John found himself oddly at peace. What there was to say, they both already knew. What was to be done about it was just as clear. No more shouting, no more fighting, no more tense moments together wondering when the topic would come up again. It wasn't what either of them wanted but somehow that was part of what made it okay. Struggling against it only made it worse—like quicksand or a Chinese finger trap. Sometimes it was okay to settle without a struggle. Sometimes you won more by giving up the fight.

"Do you like sailing?" John asked, his fork weighing a hundred pounds as he tried to pierce a bean.

Sherlock shrugged, most of his remaining energy focused into tracing the knife-marks in the table with his thumb. "Sounds abysmally boring," he said, sighing as though there were further need to demonstrate his reluctance. "Ropes and water and procedures and tackle. When are we going, Captain?"

"Tomorrow."

He chuckled, leaning back in his seat with his neck stretched and face to the rafters. "We'll be fishing next."

"Only when we're older," John promised. He took their plates to the sink and dropped them clattering within.

Neither one of them lasted another five minutes awake, both retreating to the rooms above for much needed rest and rejuvenation despite the early hour. The sleep was so deep not even the nightmares he'd revisited in the daylight could wreak havoc on John's slumber. It was dreamless and black and peaceful. It was heaven. It was needed. Still, his body not accustomed to an excesses in anything, John woke up at nearly 3am with a full battery and a much improved condition. He tried to go back to sleep but found the rustle of wind too distracting to his conscious mind, no longer preoccupied by thoughts of what was going to come next in their trip but rather what he was going to do once he returned home. More head-colds to treat, probably. More sniffles and sinuses and earaches and coughs. Dinner out with Mary to catch up on her trip and a quiet conversation at home to explain the details of his own. He didn't regret the holiday. As Sherlock had said, it was a far better goodbye this time than what they'd had before. Goodbye, perhaps, to their bachelor days of codependent domesticity but never, not in a hundred million years, would it ever be simply goodbye to Sherlock Holmes.

John felt at the table by the bedside for his book only to find the space empty. A flash of memory reminded him of its place by the hearth down below where he'd been reading in wait for Sherlock's return. The quiet hobby was the only means to perhaps lull him back to sleep or eat up the remaining hours of the night. Sighing, he threw his legs over the side of the bed, himself still fully dressed from the day before, and stepped out into the hall with a scratch and a yawn. On his way he peeked in through Sherlock's door, looking down at the splotch of black on the white pillows where his friend lay face down, his long legs peeking out the bottom of his haphazardly drawn blankets. Out cold. Between the long walk, the flame activated drug and their final shouting match, John wasn't the least bit surprised. He retreated quietly, taking the steps as slowly as needs be to keep the weathered creaks to a minimum as he descended back into their den. The book lay on the table exactly where he remembered it, the cover facing out with its nondescript images of dread and flashy title. It was a shame, really, that the Cornwall case had been largely investigated around him rather than with him. His last real murder mystery and he'd enjoyed it along the same lines as he enjoyed the books he used to fill in the gaps of interest that still existed without Sherlock's intervention. Still, it had been fun. Sherlock's methods and cases were always invested and unique. He didn't get that in his books. There was no one like Sherlock in his collection back home. They were all clever men, to be sure, but nearly perfect in every way as they got the killer and the girl. But, of course, they were fictional. And Sherlock, calamity that he was, was a true detective the likes of which the world had only had a small, censored glimpse of.

Those who can, do. And those who can't...

John left the book on its table and picked up instead the laptop still left half-forgotten on one of the kitchen counters. The battery life was thankfully still good after its lengthy hibernation as John made no effort at all to find its cord. He sat down his chair, pulling open a list of scarcely used programs until he found the one he was looking for.

Sherlock would probably never meet his children, the care for his feelings outweighing the want to share that honor. But John could very well make sure his children and the world knew the man who had been the greatest influence in John's life and to whom he owed everything. No summary would do, no two page rehashings of an amateur lost in the glamour and posted on a blog with no attention to the details or literary merit. He'd do it right this time. For them. For Sherlock. For their past that was more beauty than burden.

And he would do so from the beginning.

 

__

_Chapter I. Mr. Sherlock Holmes_

_IN the year 1998 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army..._


End file.
